


ephemerality

by rievu



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/F, i genuinely have no excuse for this
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-21
Updated: 2019-07-09
Packaged: 2019-10-13 21:03:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 28,691
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17495342
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rievu/pseuds/rievu
Summary: ephemerality (from Greek εφήμερος – ephemeros) is the concept of things being transitory, existing only briefly. despite the transience from world to world, timeline to timeline, the love between a seeker and an inquisitor remains an eternity.// a collection of au's in which cassandra and lavellan fall in love with each other, over and over again





	1. blood of a lover

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> // vampire cassandra au

“I’m a vampire.”

Lavellan blinks at Cassandra, and in turn, Cassandra mentally prepares herself for the horror and disgust that will inevitably spread through Lavellan’s lovely face. This is how it always is. This is how it will always be.

Instead, Lavellan leans in closer, and for a moment, Cassandra thinks Lavellan is going to kiss her. Lavellan’s lips are parted open, and her eyes start to flutter shut. Cassandra can hear Lavellan’s heartbeat accelerate.

Lavellan is inches away from Cassandra’s lips when she veers to the side and bites down on Cassandra’s neck.

Cassandra lets out a rather undignified yelp and sputters, “What are you doing?”

Lavellan busies herself with leaving behind a pale hickey where she bit down before she glances up and laughs, “Vampires bite people, yes? I thought it would be interesting to do the opposite. But I do not mind, _vhenan._ Do I look like someone who cares about that?”

Lavellan reaches over to grab Cassandra’s wrist and folds her warm hands over Cassandra’s cold hand. Her laugh dims down to a solemn expression as she says softly, “I have only one request. When I grow old and you do not, please be responsible for lifting all the heavy chests and boxes into our aravel or cottage or wherever we may live.” She blinks before she tacks on, “And since you have vampire strength, please carry me into bed more often. It is very sexy to have you sweep me off my feet and carry me around.”

Cassandra can only gape at Lavellan as Lavellan rambles on, “Josephine calls it bridal-style, but I am not a bride? I would not be opposed to being a bride if that is what you wish, but regardless, please carry me around more often.” Lavellan flicks Cassandra’s shoulder and asks, “Are you alright? You seem pale.”

“No,” Cassandra manages to get out. “I just told you about something life-changing and dangerous, and your response is to _bite me?”_

Lavellan shrugs.

“I could _hurt_ you,” Cassandra hisses out. She reaches over to grab Lavellan’s shoulders, and she barely remembers to hold her strength back. She shudders to think about the possibilities; she could have snapped Lavellan’s bones underneath her touch. “I am a danger, both to you and the Inquisition.”

That makes Lavellan’s eyes flash, and her voice goes low and soft as she says, “Cassandra Allegra Portia Calogera Filomena Pentaghast, if you were going to snap and kill me, then why did you not do so when I was bleeding out in your arms? So many different times, so many different opportunities when you could have snapped my bones and drank my blood. It would have been so easy for you, _yet you did not._ There is a reason why I trust you, _vhenan._ You are not a danger; you are my heart.”

Cassandra stares at Lavellan, and for once in her cold, cold life, she thinks she can feel a spark of warmth starting to bloom in her heart. Her hands fall limply to her sides, and she wonders how she ever had the brilliant, bright luck to meet Lavellan. Cassandra’s heart doesn’t beat anymore, but she presses her hand to where it lies, still and waiting, in her chest. “You… You are outrageous,” she says hoarsely. “You are outrageous, unpredictable, and so ridiculously wonderful, Lavellan.”

Lavellan’s lips quirk into a wry smile, and she leans in to peck Cassandra’s cheek. _“Ma serannas,”_ she murmurs against Cassandra’s skin. “I do love being praised.” She pulls away and idly traces branches across Cassandra’s cheeks. “Also,” she adds. “I understand why you dislike giving me kiss marks. I do not mind the use of teeth in the bed, _vhenan.”_ She punctuates the end of her sentence by kissing a trail down Cassandra’s neck and nipping at the same place where she left the hickey.

“Oh, come here, you,” Cassandra sighs as she reaches under Lavellan’s shirt to undo her bra. If Lavellan wants teeth, Cassandra will give her teeth because Cassandra gives everything to her dear, sweet Lavellan.

 

* * *

 

Cassandra never drinks human blood.

The only time she remembers drinking human blood was when she first turned. The memory is gruesome and sticks in her head to all the wrong places. The blood mages, leering down at her beside Anthony’s broken, bloodied body, and their sharp, vampiric teeth flashing in the light of their magic flames. The sensation of those same teeth snapping down over her neck, and the taste of hunger and venom spreading across her tongue. And finally, the taste of her own brother’s blood. Cassandra remembers waking up that day with her brother’s blood smeared across her lips and her brother’s broken bones in her hand.

She shakes her head, trying to dislodge the thoughts and lock them back up in their own place. Beside her, Lavellan stirs and mumbles out something incomprehensible before she curls up even closer to Cassandra. Honestly, Cassandra doesn’t understand why Lavellan cuddles so much with her. The normal thing to cuddle with would be something warm, no? But Cassandra’s skin is perpetually cold as if it were trapped in some sort of eternal winter. The contrast is even greater now that they have no clothes on underneath the sheets to shield each other from their temperature differences. But if Cassandra is winter, she thinks that Lavellan must be summer. As bright and warm as the summer sun, she thinks as she tucks some of Lavellan’s hair behind her ear.

Cassandra traces a long line from Lavellan’s shoulder to her hip with her finger, and she wonders how she was ever lucky enough to meet Lavellan. Sometimes, the Maker is kind, and in this, he gave Cassandra one of her life’s greatest blessings. She circles around some of the marks and hickeys she left on Lavellan’s skin with the pad of her finger. Lavellan shifts under her touch and blearily asks, “Do you want to go another round, _vhenan?_ Already?”

“No,” Cassandra laughs. Her voice is soft, barely audible, but she brushes over one last mark before she says, “I just wanted to check on you.”

“I am fine,” Lavellan says. The stubborn insistence is still there in her voice despite her sleepy tones, and Cassandra tucks the sheets in tighter around her. Lavellan sleeps in her bed only when Cassandra sleeps with her, and for that, Cassandra is grateful. She doesn’t think she could fit in the pile of sleeping furs and bedrolls that Lavellan uses as a bed instead. But the bed is wide enough to fit three or four people if Lavellan wished, and she worries that Lavellan won’t be warm enough with Cassandra’s added lack of temperature. Maybe if she was born a mage, she would be able to use some sort of spell to keep Lavellan warm.

She’s interrupted from her thoughts when Lavellan stretches her hand out to drag Cassandra back down to bed. Cassandra complies, and her head hits the pillow willingly. “Are you cold?” Lavellan asks. The sleep is still in her eyes, glazing them over with soft comfort, but she pushes onward. “I can make you warm,” Lavellan says, and her hands heat up with magic. She presses the magic into Cassandra’s skin and promises, “I will keep both of us warm.”

It’s almost prophetic, the way Lavellan speaks. The rise and fall of her words form a comforting cadence, and Cassandra wraps an arm around Lavellan. “Then,” she says, slow, soft, gentle, _kind._ “I will keep both of us safe.”

 

* * *

 

Lavellan keeps her secret, and Cassandra is grateful for that. However, Lavellan deeply enjoys using all sorts of vampire-related jokes and puns.

“Was that bear not a pain in the neck?” Lavellan asks after Cassandra chases off the twentieth bear to chase them down in the Hinterlands. Lavellan waggles her eyebrows and bites the air twice with an exaggerated snarl stretching her mouth wide. Her teeth clack against each other when she bites down, and that earns her a laugh from Varric.

“It really was,” he snorts. “And I swear that thing was going for my neck when it was snapping at us. It’s like it was some sort of crazy vampire. I’m tired of dealing with vampire apostates and vampire templars and whatever else Corypheus tries to make with the Venatori.”

“Blimey, vampire bears?” Sera shudders. “Don’t want none of that shite, not now, not ever.”

“Oh, but Varric,” Lavellan says with the most innocent expression she can muster up. Cassandra glares at her and gives her a thumbs-down, but Lavellan continues, “What would you call a foolish vampire?”

“I don’t know, the Venatori?” Varric tosses back.

Lavellan snorts and waves her hand as she says, “True, but no, you would call it…” She leans in and whispers, “A _silly sucker.”_

Sera chokes with her laughter, and Varric has to thump her on the back before she can say, “What?! That’s not even a good joke, Inky. You want a vampire joke? What did the Seeker say to the vampire? _So long, sucker.”_

Lavellan chortles at that and replies, “Then why do vampires need elfroot potions? For their _coffin,_ Sera, for their _coughing.”_

Sera elbows Lavellan and laughs, “What did the vampire couple do when they first saw each other? They fell in love at first bite!”

Lavellan giggles and winks at Cassandra. “Then, that love must have been very tasty,” she says in the most serious tone she can muster up. It doesn’t work because she dissolves into giggles at the end of the sentence. Lavellan sidles up to Cassandra and entwines her warm fingers with Cassandra’s cold fingers. She squeezes Cassandra’s hand and assures her, “Falling in love at first sight is not so bad, you know. I do not know how falling in love at first bite would feel, but I am up to the challenge if you want to, _vhenan.”_

“Oh, stop that,” Cassandra grumbles.

Varric arches an eyebrow and says, “Well, you two can keep your kinks in the bedroom instead of telling everyone else about it. I’ve had enough of Isabela for a lifetime. I don’t want another conversation about the best sex toys or whatever.”

Lavellan swoops in to peck Cassandra on the cheek, but she has to stand on her toes and almost misses. “For what it is worth,” she breathes out, just for Cassandra to hear. “I am very amenable to this ‘love at first bite’ joke.”

 

* * *

 

The iron tang of blood lies hot and heavy in the air, and when Cassandra sucks another breath of air into her parched lungs, the taste intensifies on her tongue.

She is used to this. She is used to this. She is used to this. _She never drinks human blood._

But does that apply to elven blood? Because Cassandra has Lavellan’s blood smeared all across her armor and her gauntlets as she tries to keep her precious love from bleeding out. Lavellan’s eyes are weak and dim as she struggles to gain a better grip on life. The arrow stuck in her shoulder moves up and down with every heaving breath she makes, and the wound along her abdomen gushes more scarlet onto Cassandra’s own armor.

 _“Vhenan,”_ Lavellan says, hoarse and broken. _“Vhenan.”_

“No, no, don’t waste your breath,” Cassandra whispers fiercely back. Tears prick the back of her eyes as she tries to hold back her grief and her hunger. When she speaks, she can feel the growing points of her teeth against her tongue. Her throat feels so dry now, but she cannot drink. She will not drink. “Solas is going to come and he is going to heal you,” she chooses to say instead. She clings onto that hope like a lifeline because she has no other choice.

Lavellan reaches up to cup Cassandra’s face, and the touch of her bare hand against Cassandra’s cheek feels like fire. The blood on Lavellan’s hand streaks across her face, and the scent intensifies. Cassandra’s mouth waters, and she knows that by this point, her fangs are completely revealed. She pants, trying to hold off the thirst, but now, she could taste Lavellan’s blood stained on her cheek, chin, and corner of her lips _if only she let herself lick her lips._

Lavellan’s eyes are unfocused, and her gaze shifts over Cassandra’s expression like glass. “I will hold onto life as long as I can,” she promises. Her voice sounds even weaker than what it did before. It takes almost all of Cassandra’s willpower to keep herself from crushing Lavellan in her hands with her vampiric strength. She will not hurt Lavellan, never, never, _never._

Lavellan tries to tug at the edge of Cassandra’s vambrace, and Cassandra bends her head down with reluctance. Lavellan presses a kiss to Cassandra’s lips with the last bit of her strength and smiles before her eyes roll back into unconsciousness. Cassandra’s eyes dilate, and she raises her head up, praying to the Maker and Andraste and any other god willing to listen. She squints in the distance and curses her nature. If it were night, she would be able to see all the way to the horizon, but the sunlight leaves her at a severe disadvantage. The light shines in her eyes, and she bites her lip with worry.

Bad idea.

The leftovers of Lavellan’s blood still on the corner of Cassandra’s lips and the remaining imprint of Lavellan’s kiss are there. Maker, _Maker,_ this must be what lyrium tastes like to templars and mages because the taste of blood is electrifying — richer and headier than anything else she’s ever tasted — and _glorious._ All in all, it should be less than a full drop of blood, but it’s enough to drive Cassandra nearly wild. But Lavellan is still and prone in her arms, and Lavellan’s blood is on her tongue.

Solas arrives with panting breath, and when Cassandra looks up, she clamps her mouth shut to hide her fangs and block out the taste. She passes Lavellan over to Solas and rushes to unsheathe her sword. She doesn't even bother to sling her shield off her back and dives straight into battle. The last thing that the red templars see is a nightmare, carved from marble and bitter, ivory fangs. Blood sprays across Cassandra's skin, and she loses herself in a frenzy. Like reavers burning through a battlefield, Cassandra cuts a swathe through their ranks. Red lyrium sings out its oppressive, dissonant song, but Cassandra is undead, unyielding, unbroken, as she descends down on the templars with the wrath of heaven as her blade.

 

* * *

 

Lavellan is drenched in blood.

This is not a new fact. Cassandra is perfectly used to this by now. Or at least, this is what she likes to tell herself. But thankfully, it’s not human blood this time. Some sort of animal that Iron Bull earned the ire of on their way back. A druffalo, Cassandra suspects. The scent of it is muskier than human, heavier than wolf but lighter than bear, rich in the way that sun-fattened grass makes blood smell.

The Iron Bull has her hoisted up on his shoulders, and magic plays around her fingers. Sparks, pellets of ice, miasma, all these and more interplay in her outstretched hands. Lavellan revels in her victory, and in the shadows of night, Cassandra’s vision is keen enough to see the way joy writes itself clearly all over Lavellan’s face. There is nothing more than Lavellan loves more than this: friendship that binds person to person, linking them together like family, like clan.

Night makes every single one of Cassandra’s senses sharper in the way that daylight muddies her senses, dulls her sight, and makes her head wish for the clarity of nightfall. That’s what made Cassandra one of the best Seekers for night watches and hunts in the depths of shadow. Cassandra could always hear an abomination hiding in the cover of night and could always see the corner of a bloodied robe if she didn’t scent it first. But this is not one of her hunts nor one of her jobs. This is simply Lavellan and Iron Bull and Dorian, dancing around the campfire, trading banter like gold pieces in a game of Wicked Grace, over and over again. Cassandra cocks her head to the side and hears Lavellan’s heart beat on in rhythm to the flowing streams of magic that she can sense with her Seeker abilities. It’s a steady sort of rhythm that Cassandra aligns herself to. After all, she has no heartbeat of her own to rely on, so she entrusts her own body’s rhythm to Lavellan.

Lavellan clambers down from her perch on Bull’s shoulders with a practiced deftness, and she darts over to Cassandra’s side. She pulls her knees up to her chest when she sits, and she laughs, “The Iron Bull attracted the rage of another druffalo.”

“At least it’s not a bear,” Cassandra returns.

“No, that’s for you, Seeker,” Bull calls. He reaches into his bag for a rag to wipe the blood off his skin. Dorian reaches over to wet the rage with a handful of water — fire and ice crackle in his hand — and Bull moves on. A routine they’ve perfected over the months. Cassandra has the same routine with Lavellan. “Have you already forgotten about all the bears you managed to attract?” Bull chuckles. He removes the bloodstains from his skin and harness with quick, efficient strokes.

Lavellan clicks her tongue, and Dorian throws a rag at her too. “Both of you are filthy,” he snips. “Absolutely terrible. I don’t know how you two manage to survive. The minute we send you two out to get something as simple as firewood, you come back with druffalo meat and hide.”

Ice snaps into cold crystals over the rag in Lavellan’s hand, but she follows up with a small flame contained in her other hand. The rag gets utterly soaked with the ice that melts over the rough fabric and Lavellan’s hand. It splashes into the grass at Lavellan’s feet, and Cassandra scents the small trace of blood it takes with it. Wordlessly, Cassandra reaches out for the rag and starts wiping the blood off Lavellan.

She has a vial of blood in her bag to tide her over if she needs it, and she already fed during the dawn. However, there’s just something about the way the scent of blood mixes in with Lavellan’s scent that makes Cassandra hunger again. The familiar pangs are back, bluntly stabbing into her throat and gut with the ache of bloodthirst. Nothing new.  She resumes wiping down the blood, and the rag quickly turns red. Lavellan reaches for the rag and squeezes the reddened water out of it before she soaks it in water again.

“Are you thirsty?” she asks. The question is innocent enough, but Cassandra knows what it means. “I can get something for you to drink.”

Cassandra catches Lavellan’s hand and presses a soft kiss to the back of it. She can taste the remnants of blood — _ah, it is druffalo_ — and the exhilarating aftertaste that the Anchor leaves on Lavellan’s skin. “No, I’m fine,” she says, looking up at Lavellan. Lavellan swallows hard when she looks at Cassandra, and her heartbeat accelerates.

“Ah, ah,” she says weakly. “I see. But please let me know if you get thirsty.”

“You two are thirsty enough,” Dorian loudly says. His voice is a clarion, jolting both of them out of their small moment, and Dorian laughs, “Just get in the tent already and sort out that thirst instead of doing it public. Go on, we won’t listen too much.”

Lavellan blinks, both at Dorian and then at Cassandra. But her heartbeat stays at the new pace, and she leans in to press a kiss to Cassandra’s forehead. “Please let me know if you are thirsty in that way too,” she murmurs, a laugh barely restrained in her soft voice. “I would be happy to help you address the problem, _vhenan.”_

Cassandra bites her lip and allows the points of her fangs to be visible for only a second. “Thank you,” she says. Lavellan brushes the pad of her thumb over Cassandra’s lips and cuts herself on the edge of Cassandra’s fang. Before Cassandra can stop herself, she darts her tongue out to lap up the small, pinprick drop that oozes out of Lavellan’s thumb.

Lavellan’s breath grows heavier, and she pulls away to start tugging her dirty armor off. “Dorian,” she calls out. “I think I may have to take that offer of a tent up now. _On nydha, lethallin.”_ She tosses the rag aside and clambers over to her tent. Cassandra holds back a laugh as Lavellan waits for her.

Bull lets out a low whistle, but Cassandra doesn’t care. Lavellan’s taste spreads over her tongue, and all she wants to do is to kiss Lavellan once more. The night amplifies her senses, so she feels everything with a heightened sensitivity, including Lavellan’s love and touch. She bids Bull and Dorian good night with a simple nod before she follows Lavellan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> uh, so basically, i have a bunch of unfinished ideas and drabbles abt different au's. i figured that i might as well just post them, so i'm going to compile the different paragraphs i have into a single chapter. aaaaand that's why it's called "ephemerality" bc it's just,,, one (1) chapter abt an au lol
> 
> thanks for reading tho!! hope you liked it <3


	2. thirty winters

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> // exalted march au

High Commander Ellana of the Emerald Knights swears in low, guttural tones as she tries to drag herself across the fields without making too much sound. The wounds and the arrows still lodged in her arms keep her from moving faster, and her legs still feel too numb from whatever magic the  _ shemlen _ devised this time.

Hypocritical  _ shemlen.  _ She doesn’t understand why they preach against magic and cage their mages in Circles while they welcome mages in their wars. In both the Second Blight and in this Exalted March, there have been mages on the battlefields, firing spells across the lines with as much brute force as they can. Ellana wonders if they even comprehend the concept of subtle magic but winces with pain when she moves her legs too fast. Their mages cast forcefully, yanking handfuls of magic past the Veil with vicious strokes. But this time, they are learning. They are adapting.

Ellana grits her teeth and flattens her body against the tall, waving grass. The drums of war still beat on in the distance, and she is not safe yet.

When she was ten winters old, she saw her first bloodshed along the edges of their borders. When she was twenty winters old, she was sent to the Chantry to negotiate with the  _ shemlen _ and their Divine as part of the retinue from the Temples. She was optimistic, hopeful, and utterly naive. Now, at thirty winters, Ellana realizes that there is little to stand in the inexorable greed of the Chantry. They worship their fires, and likewise, the flames of their insatiable hunger rise up and consume everything in their path.

Well, no matter. Ellana intends to bring the winter to them to silence their fire. If it requires her sacrifice, then so be it.

She staggers through the fields, trying to avoid the distant light of the human camps in the same fields. Finally. Ellana collapses by a large outcropping of rock and clutches healing magic to her wounds. She doesn’t have enough energy to sustain it, so the brief moment of relief is immediately cracked open to reveal the heaving, throbbing pain underneath.

She leans against the cool stone and begs Falon’Din to take her before a human does. With that final though, she allows herself to collapse and sink deep under into cool, black unconsciousness.

 

* * *

 

Cassandra surveys the battlefield. They lost too many good soldiers during this battle and many good mages as well. The Dalish are nothing if not skilled in the arts of war and magic, and Cassandra has lost too many to their skills.

She’s the only one left on this battlefield now that’s still standing. The rest of her men have already retreated back to their own tents to nurse their wounds and grieve the dead. But Cassandra refuses to go back until she honors every last body left on the field. She does not fear an attack. Both the Dalish and the Chantry have flown their red flags to signal an end of fighting for the night. So, she goes through each body, closes their eyes, and says a soft prayer.

After a while, she can feel the familiar ache in her back, so she spies a large outcropping of rock in the near distance. Cassandra heads over to the rocks and settles down against the rock. She tips her head up to gaze at the setting sun, and she watches the different colors bleed into the clouds. Brilliant red, orange, and lavender all streak across the blue skies, signaling a start to the impending night.

Normally, Cassandra enjoys watching the sunset. But today, the red that bleeds out from the sun reminds her too much of the women and men she’s lost today. So, she casts her gaze to the side.

That’s how she finds the barely breathing body of an elf, hunched against the rocks. Her eyes are closed, and she seems unconscious. There are dark tattoos across her face that look like tree branches and highlight her cheekbones, and her hair is equally dark if not darker. But the thing that draws Cassandra’s attention the most are the arrows stuck in the elf’s shoulders and the magic burns and frostbite streaking up and down her armored legs. Cassandra doesn’t know how deep the magic affected the elf’s limbs, but judging from her state, Cassandra doesn’t think it’s good.

The best thing to do in this scenario would be to just leave the elf alone or to give her a mercy killing. Cassandra doesn’t think that anyone would survive the damage this elf seems to have taken. However, her curiosity makes her gingerly roll over the elf and check for any additional damage.

Cassandra places the elf’s head on her lap while she probes the elf’s wounds. She has a few spare poultices left in her pouch, so she throws all caution to the wind and pulls them out. It might have been the pungent scent of elfroot or her touch, but suddenly, the elf stirs. Her eyes flicker open, and Cassandra sees the elf’s pupils constrict when she sees Cassandra.

She scrabbles away from Cassandra, but it isn’t much considering her weakness. She latches onto one spur of rock and snarls something in elvhen. Cassandra doesn’t know how to respond so she holds up the poultice and points at the elf’s wounds.

The elf stares her down and warily says in Common, “Who are you, and what are you doing?” 

“I’m offering you a poultice,” Cassandra says. She extends her hand out and shakes the poultice at the elf. “Take it and use it before you bleed out.”

“Do not take me for a fool,” the elf spits. “Considering your kind’s history, I would expect it to be poison. Go on. Kill me. I dare you.”

Cassandra can’t blame her suspicions. If Cassandra woke up to see an elf offering her a poultice, she wouldn’t take it either. But something in her soul makes her want to stay and offer some help. Both sides have lost enough. This is a kindness that she can spare.

“Well, I don’t know how to convince you that it isn’t,” Cassandra says. She considers the poultice for a while. Elfroot is edible, right? She shrugs and takes a bite out of it. Almost immediately, she gags on the sharp medicinal taste of it, but she manages to swallow it down. She coughs a little bit but holds up the poultice. “See? Safe,” she says. “Tastes terrible though. I think that’s a reason why they make us apply it only to the skin instead of eating it.”

The elf gapes at her, but suddenly, she bursts into a light peal of laughter. It is soft and almost angelic, but the movement of the laugh pulls at her wounds. She doubles over and retches before she chokes out, "Very well. I will take it. If this kills me, then I will know who to blame. If I die, I take you with me.”

She starts peeling off her armor. First, her breastplate. Then, she grasps the arrow shafts and grits her teeth before she pulls them out. She cries out with pain, but then, she bites her lip to keep from making too much noise. As she undresses, she turns halfway towards the rock to stop herself from exposing her breasts to Cassandra. 

She struggles with her undershirt because her shoulders are now profusely bleeding. “Do you need help with that?” Cassandra asks.

The elf pauses before she reluctantly says, “Perhaps.”

Cassandra moves over and helps the elf undress. As she pulls up the undershirt, Cassandra spies dark branches inscribed on her back as well. Cassandra tries to avoid looking at too much of the elf’s body as she strips the pieces of armor off her other limbs, but the dark movement of lines stretching across the elf’s skin draws her attention. The elf keeps her back to Cassandra — a dangerous prospect — but her sword is by her side, perfectly aligned and parallel to her body. Cassandra saw the branches lined over the elf’s cheekbones, but now, she sees that those branches are mimicked on her back.

The base — the root, the stem, the very bottom of the branch — begins at the center of her back, right above her shoulder blades. But then, the branches on either side flare out, covering the entirety of her shoulder blades in intricate detail. If anything, they look like wings but with wood and branch and ink and skin.

Cassandra silently helps the elf pack on the poultices on her shoulders. She pauses and considers the elf before she passes her the last healing potion. The elf uncorks the bottle and sniffs it once, twice. Her ears flick back, and she cranes her head back to study Cassandra’s face. Cassandra only shrugs and asks, “Do you want me to take a sip of that as well?”

The elf looks at Cassandra for a long time before she passes the uncorked bottle back to Cassandra. It almost makes Cassandra snort with laughter, but she takes a sip from the bottle. “Tastes a lot better than the poultice if that’s what you’re wondering,” she says.

The elf chuckles, “I should hope so.” With that, she downs the potion. She sighs with relief and leans her forehead against the rock. “So,” she says. “What made you stop and decide to help me, human? Your kind has very little patience or tolerance for my kind.”

“I could say the same for your people as well,” Cassandra says. “Well, I think I should introduce myself. My name is Cassandra.”

The elf slowly glances back, and her dark eyes narrow on Cassandra’s face. She bites her lower lip before she says, “I am Ellana of Clan Lavellan.”

The name sounds similar to Cassandra, and she furrows her brow as she considers the name. “Aren’t you…” she trails off.

“I could ask the same of you. There are very few people in your armies that bear the same name as you,” Ellana says.

There is only one Ellana of Clan Lavellan that Cassandra knows, and it is High Commander Ellana of Clan Lavellan, one of the eight Scions of the Dales. They were the most elite soldiers out of the Emerald Knights and the de facto leaders of the nation aside from the council of Keepers from the clans. Cassandra doesn’t know much about the Dales and how they govern, but she knows enough to know that this Ellana is far more important than Cassandra ever could have expected.

But why is she  _ here _ and not safely in her own camp? What happened to injure her so?

“What brings the Right Hand of the Divine to the remnants of a battlefield?” Ellana asks.

“I could ask the same from a Scion of the Dales,” Cassandra counters.

Ellana shrugs but immediately grimaces with pain. “I prefer being called High Commander or just Commander,” she says. “Calling me a Scion adds an element of worship that I dislike. I am Ellana of Clan Lavellan, nothing more and nothing less, and I do not claim to be any more than that.”

“I’ll call you Ellana if you just call me Cassandra then,” Cassandra says. “I’m not a fan of etiquette and niceties and titles either.”

“Excellent,” Ellana wryly says. “Wonderful. So, what do you intend to do now? Take me hostage? Torture me for information?”

Cassandra knows that would be the smart decision to make. But today, she is weary of war and bloodshed. So, she shakes her head. “No, I was just planning to leave you alone with the poultices and call it a day,” she says honestly.

Ellana examines Cassandra’s face before she relents and turns fully towards Cassandra. Cassandra immediately shields her eyes to stop herself from seeing Ellana’s breasts. That makes Ellana bark out a sharp laugh. “Oh, does the Right Hand of the Divine not enjoy seeing breasts?” 

“I don’t  _ mind _ breasts,” Cassandra bites out as she keeps her eyes covered. “I just believe in propriety. I do  _ not _ believe in indecent exposure.”

“Ah, so you do like breasts,” Ellana hums.

Cassandra lets out an indignant squawk and instinctively places her hands on her hips. However, that means she doesn’t have her eyes covered any more, so she gets a full glimpse of Ellana and the smug smirk on her face. Ellana winks at her and says, “Do not worry; I like them too.” She dissolves into a series of soft giggles, and Cassandra groans.

Cassandra gets up and brushes the bits of grass off her armor. “I’m going to go back to camp now,” she says, firmly avoiding Ellana’s gaze. She stares at the dying sunset instead as she says, “Will I see you again?”

“Quite frankly,” Ellana says quietly. “I do not think that I would be able to move. Are you returning to your camp?”

“Yes.”

“Very well,” Ellana sighs. “I will not stop you. Farewell, Cassandra Allegra Portia Calogera Filomena Pentaghast.”

“Wh—” Cassandra sputters. “Why do you know my full name? You know what? I don’t want to know. I’ll try and keep my men from coming too close to this rock. You stay safe and get back to your people when you can, alright?”

“Alright,” Ellana says. “Then, I suppose this means goodbye forever. I hope I do not meet you on the battlefield.”

“And the same to you as well,” Cassandra murmurs. 

With that, she takes her leave and picks her way across the battlefield. By the time she arrives at camp, the sun has fully set. Night weaves its way over the skies, and Cassandra waves off her men when they ask her where she’s been. “Honoring the dead requires time,” she says. Thankfully, people chalk it up to her family’s eccentricities regarding the dead. Cassandra’s never been more thankful for Uncle Vestalus’s strange customs for the dead.

But she can’t get High Commander Ellana of the Dales out of her mind. Somehow, that elf seemed more human than Cassandra’s ever perceived despite the sharpness of Ellana’s ears and the branches inked on Ellana’s skin. It is a thought that she out of all people shouldn’t have. She is the Right Hand of the Divine, orchestrating this Exalted March on behalf of Divine Renata. She shouldn’t be thinking like this.

But she is.

 

* * *

 

 

Ellana doesn’t like this feeling deep in her heart.

She’s taught herself to be bitter against the shemlen, but the poultices on her wounds and the aftertaste of the healing potion on her tongue is telling her something different. She  _ liked _ teasing the Right Hand of the Divine. She  _ liked _ talking with her. 

She shivers against the cold night air and tries to summon up a few sparks of warmth. It’s hard, but she manages to press some warmth back into her skin. She barely has enough energy to heal her wounds together, but with Cassandra’s help, she thinks she could return to the Dales by the next day or so.

Her brother must be worried out of his mind. Well, Ellana thinks he knows that she’s fine. If she died, she knows her brother would’ve felt it. The blessings and the curses of being soul twins, she supposes.

Ellana leans against the rock and slowly starts putting on her clothes and armor again. With each piece of ironbark she laces back on her body, she tries to put her own defenses up again. She still remembers the day a message was sent back from Val Royeaux. It was not a response from the Divine as the Scions expected. Not even the courtesy of a simple refusal. No, it was a message from one of Mahanon’s agents reporting that their letters had been burned and that their ambassador had been tortured. Ellana’s hands ball into angry fists when she thinks about it. That ambassador had been from Ellana’s jurisdiction: one marked with the branches of Mythal. 

She doesn’t want to be twenty winters old and naively optimistic again. She knows how it’ll all pan out. But this infuriating spark of hope refuses to die down. That is how Ellana falls asleep under the stars: with a heart that drums out a flicker beat of hope.

When she wakes up the next day, she wakes up to the scent of smoke and the sound of sizzling meat. Ellana tries to get up, but she hears Cassandra click her tongue disapprovingly. “Just lie down,” Cassandra instructs. “I’m making breakfast. Don’t panic. No one knows you’re here.”

Ellana refuses to listen as she tries to haul herself up to a sitting position. She winces as she feels her thin scabs tear open once more, and she presses some healing magic to her wounds. “I told you so,” Cassandra grumbles. “Stubborn elf, aren’t you.”

Ellana surveys the small camp Cassandra has set up. The fire she has going is so laughably small that Ellana doesn’t even think it should legally be called a campfire. It’s more of a small flame if anything. Cassandra has a small cast-iron pan with sausage frying in the bit of oil over the flame. Beside Cassandra, there’s a small flask and a number of healing potions and poultices.

“Why did you come back?” Ellana asks.

“Not even a thank you before you start with the questions,” Cassandra chuckles. “No worries, I would’ve asked the same thing. Frankly, I have no idea.”

“You could have left me alone,” Ellana says.

Cassandra pauses and looks up from the pan. “Do you want me to leave?” she asks. “I can leave if you want me to.”

“That is alright,” Ellana hurries to say. “But are you supposed to be here?”

Cassandra flips the sausage with the point of her dagger before she says, “No, probably not. But I purposefully woke up before dawn to get here on time. If anyone questions me, I’ll just make up an excuse about dead bodies and Uncle Vestalus.”

“Uncle Vestalus?” Ellana echoes.

Cassandra makes a face and gestures towards the field beyond the large boulders. “My uncle had a habit of preserving the dead and making up intricate rituals to honor the fallen,” she says. “Actually, it’s more of a family habit than anything else. They call themselves the Mortalitasi, and it’s a trend that’s starting to spread from the part of the empire that used to be my home.” Cassandra shudders. “But my uncle was certainly the most fervent of them all. Now, almost all of the empire expects my family — including me — to be as… Dedicated to the dead as Uncle Vestalus was.”

“Oh,” Ellana says. Somehow, the thought of this woman hunching over a dead human’s body is so inexplicably funny. Combined with the sheer disgust in Cassandra’s voice, it’s simply too funny to  _ not _ laugh at. She holds her hand to her mouth, trying to stifle her giggles, but it doesn’t work.

“Stop laughing,” Cassandra grumbles. But she hides a smile of her own too.

Cassandra shuffles over to put the sausages on a plate and rambles, “I hope Lieutenant General Rutherford doesn’t notice that I borrowed his pan. I never bothered to bring my own utensils, but that man has a veritable kitchen in his chest. I wonder if the Alamarri or the Chantry sisters and missionaries stationed there have some sort of cooking culture or if the man just likes to cook for fun.”

Ellana furrows her brow with confusion, and when Cassandra notices, she muses, “I don’t know if I should tell you more.”

“I will tell you more about my friends if you tell me about yours,” Ellana offers. “An equal trade, I think.”

“Well then,” Cassandra says. “Lieutenant General Cullen Stanton Rutherford is… I don’t know how the man managed to make his way up the ranks so quickly, but he’s here now under my command. He was found as a babe in Alamarri territory and was raised in the newest monastery charted by the previous Divine. I have no idea how he manages to haul his things around everywhere, but he has a skillet, a pan, a spatula, and multiple plates in his trunk.” She shakes her head and says incredulously, “He’s not even an army cook. I don’t know  _ why _ he has all of these things. I suppose he wouldn’t mind if I borrowed them temporarily.”

Ellana cracks a smile and offers, “Well, my brother, Mahanon, once had a spa day in one of our army camps once. He harvested honey and milk from the nearby hives and halla herds to make facials for each and every Emerald Knight in that camp. Everything was fine until we heard the alert. Everyone hurried to leave the camp and get in their formation with the face masks still on.” Cassandra bursts out laughing, but Ellana winks and continues, “Thankfully, it was a false alarm. Some bear accidentally set off our alarms, but it was certainly a commotion. My brother is now banned from having spa days now. He was very upset about it.”

They chat over breakfast until the sun finally rises. The sky begins to pale in color, and the conversation wanes. Finally, Cassandra hesitantly asks, “Do you think our people could be like this? No war, no fights?”

Ellana considers the question before she says softly, “No. My people do not trust your people and for good reason. Even when one of my people fell in love with yours, it was not enough to bridge our differences, and we both paid in blood. It is how the Exalted March began, in fact.”

“What do you mean?” Cassandra asks.

Ellana arches an eyebrow and asks, “Do you not know?” When Cassandra shakes her head, Ellana exhales heavily and says, “Red Crossing.”

“That was your people’s doing,” Cassandra automatically says.

That stokes the fury in Ellana’s eyes, and she laughs coldly. In the light of the flickering flame, her dark eyes reflect the light flatly against Cassandra’s eyes. “Red Crossing,” she repeats. “Oh, there is so much more to it than what your people like to believe.” She spreads her hands wide and says, “Of course, I admit that we had some fault in it. But it was an entire misunderstanding. Tell me, do you know the story of Knight Elandrin?”

“No.”

“Of course you don’t.”

Cassandra bristles at that sentence and challenges, “Then what do I not know?”

“Knight Elandrin was someone who was foolish enough to fall in love,” Ellana says steadily. “We knew that one of our own fell in love with a human girl. He agreed to forsake the Dales, forsake our gods, forsake his people and his family for this girl. His sister, Siona, alerted us to this danger. Because even if his heart and his lover’s heart were pure, we knew that that your Chantry would take the opportunity to pry our secrets from his lips. That was a risk we could not take. So, Knight Siona led a party to retrieve Knight Elandrin. It was to be clean and simple, but the human girl thought Siona was her brother and ran towards her as she was crying out.”

“She did not—“ Cassandra breathes out. 

Ellana cuts her off and says, “She did. Knight Siona is nothing if not quick. She bears Elgar’nan’s marks and trained under the Temple of the Sun. She learned the arts of vengeance and retribution well, and that art festered in her limbs when the humans killed her sister during a border patrol. Still, that did not teach her patience. That is where I admit our fault in the matter. Knight Siona shot her down, and that led to a bloodbath in that human village. Our knights fled, but we lost Knight Elandrin to a human mob who would not listen to any explanations.”

Cassandra stares at Ellana, eyes open wide, and Ellana bitterly shakes her head. “I along with the other Scions of the Dales sent letters and even an ambassador to explain the situation and to apologize for Knight Siona’s rash behavior,” she says. “But our informants reported back to say that our letters were burned without even being read. Our ambassador was captured and tortured before he finally killed himself rather than betray our nation.”

She spreads her hands wide and lets flame flicker over her hands. “Your people have been nursing an old hatred of my nation and my people whether it be from the recent Blight or the wealth of our lands. Yet, your people forget that your prophet gave us this land and called Shartan  _ brother. _ Your people forget that we sent our people to help. Ameridan of Clan Ghilan and Telana of the Temple of Journeys went to your emperor and joined his Inquisition. Some members of our people renounced the Dales to join your Wardens. We remained neutral during the Second Blight, yes, but we did not remain passive. And now, your Divine leaps at the opportunity to spill elvhen blood across our soil and supposedly take back land that was promised to us.”

Cassandra folds her arms and remains silent. Ellana extinguishes the flame, having said what had festered in her own heart for so long. She is tired of this war, yes, but she will not deny the existence of this old anger. She is older now — thirty winters worth of time — and she is bitter. But she wants this small,  _ small, _ bit of hope to survive. She just doesn’t know how.

“Then what will it take?” Cassandra suddenly asks.

Ellana cocks her head to the side. “What do you mean?” she asks rather waspishly.

Cassandra’s voice remains even as she repeats, “What will it take? What will it take for us to bridge this gap? You and I, we could resolve our differences. Heal the wound, if you want a metaphor.”

“Your people are not so easy to change,” Ellana bites out.

“So are yours,” Cassandra counters. “But if we could get along well enough to help each other, tease each other, and ah, even dress down in front of each other, than could we not help our people work together? You are the High Commander of the Dales, a Scion of your people, while I am the Right Hand of the Divine.”

“I could be executed for treason if I tried,” Ellana says.

“And I could be executed  _ and _ excommunicated from the Chantry,” Cassandra says. “But if we do not try, then who will?”

Cassandra’s eyes are ever so bright as she speaks, and Ellana finds herself drawn to them. Illimitably so. Ellana sighs, wondering how this human managed to revive the old spark in her heart once more. She lifts her head up and gazes directly into Cassandra’s eyes as she says, “Then let us try together.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i will entirely admit that i was running a high fever and on nyquil while i was writing this, so it's super duper unedited. my lavellan is generally young and optimistic and naive, so i was interested in writing about her when she was older. normally, she's the one to lighten cassandra's mood and offer more hope, so i enjoyed the slight reversal.


	3. the tides of time

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> // time travel au

“You will never win, little rat,” Corypheus laughs as he dangles Lavellan from his twisted claws. A smirk tears his rotting mouth open as he croons, “How many times will you try and fail, little knife-eared thief?”

Lavellan grits her teeth and raises her Anchored hand. The green light from her hand sputters and sparks, casting a sickly green over Corypheus’s face. “As many times as it will take,” she snarls before she tears the fabric of reality and the Veil open in a single swipe.

She falls from Corypheus’s grasp and feels the world warp and twist around her. _One more time,_ she tells herself. _One more time, and I will make it right this time._

There is no response to her desperate thought, and the world crumbles behind her.

 

* * *

 

Cassandra watches the wreckage of the Conclave, and for some reason, she thinks that she’s lived through this before. There is no possible way that this could happen. No one could have predicted such a nightmarish outcome. But as the Breach pulsates a deep green above her head in the sickening skies, Cassandra watches the chaos and thinks that she has seen this all before.

Perhaps she isn’t getting enough sleep.

She heads over to where the prisoner is being kept. Adan and the elven apostate have been pouring potions down her throat and binding poultices over her left hand that glows the same green as the sky. It’s the second day since they’ve found her, and she’s still unconscious.

Cassandra knocks twice on the door, and Adan opens it. The dark circles under his eyes have deepened since the last time Cassandra saw him, and there are grass stains across his old blouse. She wonders if he’s slept at all, but Adan gruffly says, “Seeker. Here to check on the lass?”

Cassandra nods, and he shakes his head. “Seems more likely that she’s gonna die with that strange shit in her hand,” he says. “Never seen anything like it.”

“Well, we shall simply have to keep her stable,” Cassandra brusquely says. “We can’t afford to have her dead.”

She steps inside and sees the elf’s prone body on a thin bedroll above bare ground. Cassandra offered to find them a spare cot, but Solas and Adan both refused, saying that her body was overheating with excess magic. The coldness of the ground was the only thing that they could do to wick the heat away without wasting energy on cooling spells. Like the last time Cassandra checked on her, her arms are limp by her sides. The elven apostate is by her side, prodding her hand with a handful of magic. He looks up and inclines his head towards Cassandra. “Seeker Cassandra,” Solas says.

“How is she?” Cassandra asks as she kneels down beside him.

Solas grimaces, “Still unconscious and barely alive. The more I try to remove this Anchor from her palm, the tighter her body clings onto it. At this point, she and the Anchor are inseparable.”

Cassandra looks down at the elf and notes how pale her skin is. The branches tattooed across her face stand out in harsh relief, and Solas sighs, “Rest assured that we are doing our best, Seeker. You do not have to stop by so frequently.”

Cassandra hesitates before she plunges in and says, “Do you ever get the feeling that this isn’t new? That we’ve done this all before?”

Solas pauses in the midst of his ministrations before he leans back on the balls of his feet and dismisses the magic from his hands. “What makes you say that, Seeker?” he asks warily.

Cassandra exhales heavily before she tries to connect her words and thoughts together. “The Breach, the chaos of the Conclave,” she says slowly. “Something in the back of my mind tells me that this was all something that I expected to happen. Something that makes me feel like we’ve lived through this before.”

Solas stays silent, and Adan in the back continues to putter around with his mortar and pestle. The sounds of Adan grinding elfroot down are the only things filling the space between Cassandra, Solas, and the unconscious elf. But finally, Solas admits, “Yes, sometimes I feel that way. But there is no choice that we have other than to live through it. We must move on towards the next goal. We do not have any other option to spare.”

He resumes his spells over the elf’s body, and Cassandra quietly watches him. After a few more moments, she stands up and exits the herbalist’s cottage. Still, something niggles at her from the back of her mind. The elf herself seems far too familiar for Cassandra’s own comfort. Cassandra tips her head up to gaze at the Breach once more.

The only answer — if it is an answer at all — is the hungry roar of the Breach as it spreads out to consume more of the sky.

 

* * *

  
  
Lavellan thinks that the Breach grows bigger and bigger with each time that she resets time. She’s never able to reset time beyond the Conclave. She suspects it’s because of the Anchor and its longevity within the timelines that she’s existed in. Every time she starts a reset, she finds the situation growing larger and larger, and she fears that one day, she’ll start a reset where the situation grows out of her control.

She knows that Haven isn’t a good place to remain, and with that motivation, she constantly urges the others to move. They don’t listen to her. They never do. Not until it’s too late.

One of the most disruptive things about time travel is that Lavellan constantly has to keep tabs on what she’s supposed to know and what she already knows. Sometimes, she loops her arms around Cassandra without thinking, and instead of receiving a gentle kiss back, she’ll feel Cassandra stiffen under her touch. Sometimes, she’ll laugh at a joke Varric tells her and then says she’ll have to tell Dorian the same joke when Dorian isn’t there yet.

It’s hard.

The first time Corypheus arrived to Haven, Lavellan thought that they could fight off his forces. She was sorely mistaken. She watched as one by one, her companions and the people of Haven fell and stained the snow a bloody red. The only thing keeping her alive was the Anchor, and it was only by chance that she accidentally reactivated the same time magic that she experienced at Redcliffe.

The second time Corypheus arrived to Haven, Lavellan sent every person to the passageway underneath the Chantry while she fought off Corypheus and the Archdemon. She never got to the trebuchets in time for the snows to collapse down the mountain. A regrettable decision and one she did not make again the next time she went through Haven.

The third time Corypheus arrived to Haven, Lavellan managed to reach and launch the trebuchets on time, but she didn’t save all the people trapped in the burning buildings of Haven. Call her selfish or foolish, but Lavellan restarted time once more to save them. All of them.

These are the decisions that she makes to save these people — _her people_ — and it is slowly killing her.

The Anchor grows more and more powerful with each reset, and she feels the burning more acutely. Now, when she wakes up in Haven again, she finds that her veins are slowly beginning to glow a faint green as they trail up her left arm. Her palm is more inflamed, and she has a harder time closing the Breach after she recruits the mages.

However, she’s growing smarter, stronger, _bolder._ Varric once told her something in the Hinterlands along those lines. _Whatever doesn’t kill you makes you stronger._ Perhaps this is the very same case. Constant time travel reforges Lavellan into something new that is stronger, but she also fears that she loses parts of herself with every reset. But she is stronger.

Now, she navigates the burning wreckage of Haven with ease. She knows where each and every person will be under the heaving, snapping lumber and dives into the flames without hesitation. If she fails, she can simply try again.

Lavellan surveys Haven and sees everyone celebrating. She hasn’t taken off her armor after the closing of the Breach — a mistake she only made once — and keeps her staff by her side. She has newly replenished potions in the pouches hanging from her belt, and she has freshly sharpened knives tucked in sheaths in her long coat if she loses her staff. Her left ear flicks back slightly; she can hear the crunching of footsteps behind her towards the left.

“Why aren’t you celebrating with the others?” Cassandra asks. “You out of all people should be the one to celebrate the most.”

Lavellan turns to offer Cassandra a wan smile. “I do not think I am a very good fit for parties,” she chooses to say. “I prefer my own peace and quiet. Also, there is something beautiful about Haven. It is nice to sit and relax on my own here. Perhaps I will rejoin the party later.”

She’s not necessarily lying. This is the last chance she’ll get to see Haven before it burns and gets buried under a mountain’s worth of snow.

Cassandra stands beside her and considers her for a moment. “I came to apologize,” she finally says. “I feel like I owe you an apology.” She runs her fingers through her hair — a nervous tic that she has — and shuffles her feet. “I treated you like a suspect,” she admits. “I only considered you valuable because of the Anchor on your hand and for nothing else. I wanted to believe that you were the one who caused the explosion because I needed someone to blame in my grief. But that was a disservice to you. I am sorry, Lavellan, truly I am. You are a kinder and gentler person that I ever could’ve expected. And I am here to thank you for closing the Breach.”

She extends her hand out for a handshake, and Lavellan stares at her hand. This hasn’t happened before. This isn’t the usual set of events. Lavellan glances up at Cassandra’s hopeful expression, and her willpower crumbles in the face of her _vhenan’s_ lovely eyes. She reaches out to shake Cassandra’s hand. “Thank you for always keeping an open mind,” Lavellan says in turn. “I understand what it might have seemed like at the beginning. But you gave me a chance. Something that few can say at the beginning of all of this.” Lavellan gives her a smile a touch too tender than she wants to give. “I truly appreciate you, Cassandra Pentaghast. Truly.”

Cassandra blinks at that before she awkwardly opens her arms up. Lavellan cocks her head at the strange motion, and Cassandra flushes red. “A hug,” Cassandra manages to get out. “Like the ones you always give to others. I thought it might be some Dalish custom or something that you —”

Lavellan doesn’t let Cassandra finish her sentence by tackling her into a tight embrace. Cassandra takes a step back from the force of the impact, but she keeps Lavellan steady and reciprocates as best as she can. Lavellan tries to pour as much love as she can into this single touch. This may not be the usual set of events that she has memorized into the lines and grains of her memory, but _Creators be damned,_ she will take as much love as Cassandra is willing to offer.

Cassandra never tells her that she loves Lavellan until much, much later. This is a small blessing, or perhaps it is a curse? Lavellan doesn’t know how to calculate her odds against this new set of small changes, but as she nestles in closer to Cassandra, she swears that she’ll always save Cassandra and the others.

She doesn’t care how many pieces of herself she loses to the tides of time. She will pay however much the Creators and Fen’Harel want if it means that the people she loves will make it to the end of this.

 

* * *

 

Lavellan walks through Skyhold as if she owns it.

Well, she technically does since she’s the Inquisitor now, but Lavellan moves through Skyhold as though she’s lived here before.

Cassandra knows that she’s not the only one to notice this. Solas studies Lavellan with a peculiar expression on his face when he watches her move through the old fortress. She points out different areas of the fortress that they could use with an uncanny speed whether it be the quartermaster’s chamber or an office Cullen can use. There’s an old tower that Lavellan says can be combined into a rookery for Leliana, a library for Dorian, and a study for Solas.

When Solas asks her how she’s so sure in her decisions, Lavellan cheekily winks and says, “I tried searching for this fortress you spoke of in my dreams and planned what we could do with it.”

Varric and Dorian almost die laughing, and Dorian cackles, “How about that, Solas? Have a taste of your own medicine!”

Lavellan smiles that secret smile of hers and remains silent.

 

* * *

 

She tells Cassandra only once about her resets.

It is after they exit the Fade and land back down on the broken, bloodied cobblestones of Adamant. Lavellan staggers forward and is so immensely _grateful_ that Cassandra is still alive. The last time she went through Adamant, she lost Cassandra. That was an unforgivable mistake, moreso than any other mistake she’s ever made.

When they return to Skyhold, Cassandra comes to her rooms and confesses her love. Lavellan almost weeps from relief and pent-up love, but the thing that finally makes her crack is when Cassandra asks her, “How did you know all of those demons were going to be there?” Cassandra cups Lavellan’s cheeks and says, “You knew where each and every thing was before we found it or knew it was there. I wonder how you did it.”

Cassandra asks it with a smile, but Lavellan crumbles. And Lavellan tells her each and every detail of her time resets. Of Redcliffe, of Haven, of Halamshiral, of Adamant, of the Arbor Wilds. Lavellan’s never quite made it to the end of the Temple of Mythal, so she doesn’t know what’s beyond that point. But she tells Cassandra everything.

“How many times have you lived through Haven?” Cassandra says, absolutely aghast.

“Too many for me to count,” Lavellan sighs. “Oh, do not frown, _vhenan._ It was — _is_ — a necessary evil. It is the only way to save the Inquisition.”

“No, it isn’t,” Cassandra says, clutching onto Lavellan’s hands. “You can let go of some things. You don’t have to save everyone. Some losses are inevitable. You don’t have to kill yourself like this.”

“Then what shall I do, Cassandra?” Lavellan challenges. “What shall I do when the Inquisition never moved from Haven and when Corypheus took the village and captured everyone? What shall I do when Celene dies and Halamshiral breaks down into chaos? What shall I do when every Warden turns into a demon and crushes our friends, our companions.”

She pulls her hands away from Cassandra and curls them into fists so tight that she can feel her fingernails digging into her palms. “Tell me, my love,” she whispers brokenly. “What shall I do when I see a demon of terror sink its claws into your chest?” She shakes her head. “I have seen too many things, Cassandra. And I know. I know I am losing myself. Every time I travel through time, every time I reset my mistakes, I pay with a piece of myself. I fear that one day, I will pay the last piece I have to spare, and then, I will lose all of you. I will lose it all.”

Cassandra pulls Lavellan into a tight embrace and rocks her back and forth as she strokes Lavellan’s hair. Lavellan allows her tears to slip down her cheeks, and in a desperate, aching whisper, Cassandra says, “Please stop traveling. I will protect you. I’ll keep you safe.”

“I wish it was like that, _vhenan,”_ Lavellan chokes out. “Truly, I wish it were so.”

Somehow, they manage to make it all the way to the Arbor Wilds. But before Lavellan orders the march to Orlais, she thinks that she will try and change something new that she’s never been able to succeed in before. Instead of ordering her armies forward, she asks for a ship to travel across the Waking Sea. She leaves from the port of Amaranthine and heads to the Free Marches.

It is a strange and bittersweet sensation to be back in her home again, but she cannot rest. Not until she reaches Wycome.

But when she reaches it already, she’s too late. Despite her calculations and all the gold she’s spent on a faster journey, Wycome is already burning. The scents of blood and lyrium plague are too heavy, too redolent, in the thick and smoke-filled air. Lavellan can’t count how many times she’s had to read about her clan’s death, but this is one of the few times she’s had the curse of watching them burn. It’s not even shocking anymore. The scent of burning bodies is too familiar now, so familiar that sometimes, she smells it in her dreams.

Cassandra hurries to Lavellan’s side and whirls her around to face her. “No, Lavellan, please,” she says. “Don’t leave. Stay here. Stay here with me.”

Tears fill in Lavellan’s eyes as she reaches up to caress Cassandra’s cheek. “I love you, Cassandra,” she murmurs. “And I will always love you no matter how many times I relive this nightmare.”

And that is the simple truth of it. Cassandra has always been and will always be her harbor in the middle of the wild, tumultuous sea that was time.

Lavellan keeps that thought in mind when she steps away from Cassandra and tears herself a new portal through time with the Anchor. She falls backward, and the last thing she sees of this timeline is the image of Cassandra’s desperate eyes and hands outstretched to reach Lavellan, all framed by the flickering flames of the fire that slowly consumes Wycome.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i think that this au out of all the other ideas i've had captured ellana's greatest fear and greatest flaw the best. she is fundamentally unable to accept the fact that there are inevitable losses. she has to save every single person no matter what the cost is to herself. also, i enjoy writing sad things haha


	4. arbiter of the moons

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> // arranged marriage + politics au

Ellana hears the sound of footsteps down the hall long before the sound of Abelas’s voice reaches her ears.

“The Inquisition is here, your worship,” he says. “Your presence is required in the Chamber of Dreams.”

Ellana ignores Abelas in favor of whispering a prayer under her breath as she waves her hand over still water. The water lies in the wide dish on the altar in front of her, and it shimmers before it frosts over completely. The ice, however, is a pale blue that begins to turn a deep and vibrant green with the pure energy of the Fade. She traces the symbol of Mythal over the ice and watches it melt into the shape of branches. Then, with a wave of her hand, the sanctified water rises and pours itself into a row of nine chalices atop the altar. Ellana makes a mental note to bring some of the holy water to replenish the Well at the center of the temple, but for now, she has other matters to deal with. She sighs and turns to face Abelas.

“You know I do not like being called that,” she reminds him. She steps down from the altar, and as she goes, her vestments sweep behind her and magic flares down the aisle, lighting the thuribles hanging from the the pillars. The sweet scent of incense slowly begins to fill the altar room. Ellana glances at the statues lining the aisle and waves her left hand. The statues glow faintly, but most importantly, the statue of Mythal with her scales of justice and her dragon behind the altar gleam the brightest. Ellana nods with satisfaction before she reaches Abelas’s side.

Abelas automatically dips into a bow with his hand over his heart when Ellana comes closer. He straightens and immediately begins striding down the temple hall towards the exit. “You forget where you are, Arbiter,” he says evenly as he walks. “Here, you are the Arbiter of the Moons and our representative of the Temple of Scales and our goddess, Mythal. This is where you must command the most respect. Do you forget so easily?”

“No, I do not,” Ellana sighs, but she follows him. “I simply believe that faith and duty and leadership do not require such titles.”

“But it is the title that you must bear,” Abelas tuts. “And with pride. I did not wake from uthenera for my time to be wasted. Keep your chin held high, and hold to traditions.”

The sound of the waterfalls within the expansive temple grow louder and louder as they move away from the central altar room. Ellana tugs at the collar of her robes and grumbles, “We do not abide by tradition as if it were law, Abelas. We take the legacy of our people and shape it to fit us in the present. Look at the vallaslin our people bear now compared to the ones we once bore ages ago. Or if you would like another example, look at the way we worship now and operate our government compared to the days of Arlathan or even the very first age of the Dales. Would unnecessary titles not fall under that same category?”

Abelas stops in his tracks to give Ellana a withering glare. “Do not try to equate your personal preferences with the development of a civilization,” he chides sharply. “Your dislike of formality was something I should have taught out of you when you were an acolyte. Your worship, your excellency, your honor. These are all titles you agreed to bear when you were selected to be the next Arbiter of the Moons for the Temple of Scales. Bear your titles with pride because our goddess Mythal has granted you the authority to bear them. You lead and represent Mythal in the Dales. Make sure to behave that way.” He shakes his head. “I cannot believe I am still lecturing you, even in your current position.”

 _“Ir abelas,”_ Ellana says. She can’t resist the cheeky smile that creeps across her face though. The familiar tone in Abelas’s tone is strangely comforting. It makes her feel less isolated.

But Abelas is also correct. She is now the Arbiter of the Moons rather than a simple acolyte of Mythal or a child still stumbling around in the fields of her clan. The spirits of the temple as well as the residual will of Mythal in the temple appointed her as the next representative of the temple itself, and thus, she inherited the title of Arbiter for the goddess of justice. And with that title, Ellana also had to take a place within the Arlath’amelan, the High Council of the Dales.

“Were you not expecting the Inquisition?” Abelas asks. “You were, after all, the one who proposed to broker an alliance with them to the rest of the Arlath’amelan.”

“Oh, no one expects the Inquisition,” Ellana laughs. “If someone asked you if the _shemlen_ Divine would break away from tradition that severely to prevent a war, you would have laughed as well, Abelas. She is cobbling together a ragtag force out of the broken pieces of the Seekers, the Templars, and the Circle, and most importantly, it is _working._ That is why I did not throw away their offer of an alliance so quickly, and that is why I proposed the idea to the rest of my council. Yes, they will likely wither away if they remain in their terrible mountain town location. Haven? Something to do with the ashes of their prophet that they burned themselves? Regardless, with the force of the Dales, they are likely to reshape Thedas, and the Dales could have a larger part in that.”

“Yes, yes, but that was not my point,” Abelas replies testily. “I was asking you if you ever considered keeping a closer eye on your own personal schedule throughout the day.”

Ellana waves him off and airily replies, “One day, but that day will not be now.” She shoots Abelas a dirty look though. “You do have to admit that they traveled to the Dales faster than any one of us expected.”

“They got a new horsemaster recently,” Abelas muses. “From Ferelden, if I recall correctly. They may not have eluvians, but well-rested and well-fed horses make quite the difference. Also, anything that the new farrier can offer would be better than what Haven has to offer if our scouts in Haven are correct.”

“That is entirely fair,” Ellana sighs. Now, they exit the main circle of the temple and head towards the eluvian. She reaches out to trace a glyph on the surface of the mirror, and the hard surface of the glass turns soft and melts away into air. She steps into the Crossroads through the eluvian’s frame, and Abelas follows close behind. “You are my general, Abelas, and I value your opinion whether it be in matters of war or matters of peace,” she says. “I would like to hear what you have to say on the matter.”

“Do you now?” Abelas inquires. “I seem to recall a certain acolyte telling me that they did not wish to stay and finish lessons. I also seem to recall a certain Arbiter refusing to listen to me when I suggested that the Arbiter hold more closely to tradition.”

“That first one was from years ago,” Ellana groans. “And I still stand by my statement. I think that some Temples hold far too closely to tradition and to shades of the past. It is good to honor our ancestors, but that does not mean we must follow their words verbatim in a world that constantly changes. We do not have that kind of luxury.”

Now, a smirk curls around Abelas’s lips as he flicks Ellana’s shoulder. “A few years are nothing more than a drop of time to me,” he reminds her. “And that is a debate that we may set aside for another day.” His expression sobers, and he folds his hands behind his back as he sighs, “As for the alliance, I do not think it is the correct way to move forward. However, I will concede that having more allies is better than having none. After all, that is the reason why we barely survived the Exalted March.”

Ellana’s face darkens into bitter contemplation. The Exalted March. She does not think the Dales would have survived that without the eluvians or the ancient elves that woke up from uthenera. The magic and ease of transportation from the eluvians as well as the knowledge of the old ones granted them the edge they needed against Divine Renata. Ellana knows this story well because it was one that was taught into the deep grooves of her memory. And she takes the lesson to heart.

Better to keep allies than to keep enemies. If anything, better to keep enemies close and watch over their movements and intentions up close.

Abelas guides her over to a western eluvian that leads to Halamshiral. “They are waiting in the Chamber of Dreams, Arbiter,” he quietly says. “The Master of Radiance and the Guide of the Herd have requested that you sift through the marks that the diplomats make against the Fade later on. The Witness of the Dead and the Augur of the Hearth have agreed that it was a wise idea.”

“And my brother?” Ellana asks. “What is his opinion on it all?”

“The Watcher of Shadows refused to give an opinion without hearing yours first, Arbiter,” Abelas answers.

Ellana sighs and leans against the eluvian. The glass is still cool and hard without the touch of magic, and she lets it stay still for a moment longer. “Then I suppose I will have to dream there tonight,” she says. “No other Dreamers are available for the duty?”

Abelas shakes his head. “This was an unanimous opinion from the other members of the Arlath’amelan. This alliance is a matter that should remain in relative secrecy among the Arlath’amelan before it is brought to the Vhen’dirth’an or the rest of the clans.”

“Oh, I am sure the Vhen’dirth’an would _love_ to have their own input on the matter,” Ellana snorts. “There are some Keepers who resent the Vhen’dirth’an’s place as the lower house of government, but they are the same people who welcome the traditions of old when it suits them. How bothersome.”

“Your own grandmother is on the Vhen’dirth’an,” Abelas points out.

Ellana rolls her eyes. “But my grandmother thinks that I have good opinions and make good decisions,” she says.

“Even when you tried to adopt a baby dragon?”

Ellana turns to activate the eluvian. “I am going to pretend that you did not say anything about that,” she says. She glances back at Abelas and flashes him a small smile. “I will return as soon as I am able. Send me a message using one of my brother’s ravens if something requires my attention.”

She slips through the fluid mist and fog just before it smoothes back into thick glass once more. Abelas watches his Arbiter leave and tiredly laughs in her absence. With that, he turns and returns to his duties.

 

* * *

 

Cassandra doesn’t know what to expect.

One moment, she was the Hero of Orlais and the Right Hand of the Divine. The next moment, she had another title foisted onto her list of too-long titles. She doesn’t even want to think about the titles and names she’s accrued from the Pentaghast family either. But she is the Inquisitor now, and the Inquisition requires more alliances from different nations.

Val Royeaux is in turmoil after Divine Justinia’s controversial decision. In other countries, the Mage-Templar War has swept up too many people in its wake to even address the constitutionality of the Inquisition properly. Orlais was too busy bleeding itself dry with a civil war, an internal war from the Chantry, and the usual antics of the Great Game. So, Divine Justinia pulled a few favors, and Cassandra found herself stationed in Haven with Leliana and a few others.

Haven was not the best place to start an organization. Supply lines were tenuous and thin, and few recruits arrived to the snowy town. Cassandra already had her new advisors telling her this repeatedly. The Inquisition needed new allies and soon.

Her ambassador was an Antivan woman by the name of Josephine. Supposedly, she was renown for having strings woven across the entirety of Thedas. Leliana tells Cassandra that Josephine could pluck strings and play the Great Game as easily as a harp with her diplomatic connections. That combined with Leliana’s own connection with the Hero of Ferelden — who was Dalish — finally landed the Inquisition a meeting for a potential alliance.

Cassandra wipes her sweaty palms against her thighs and wonders who was put in charge of the Inquisition’s formal uniforms. She chafes against the high collar and the tightly buttoned uniform. She wonders if the tailor knew they were making a uniform for a far-more muscled and taller woman than it was likely made for. At least Leliana and Josephine have to wear the same outfit. Cullen was lucky enough to skip out on this meeting. Josephine and Leliana thought it would be unwise to bring a former templar into the heart of the Dales: a place known for its incredible tolerance and encouragement of magic.

Regardless, she waits in the chambers of the Dales. It’s a high, vaulted chamber with intricate elvhen frescoes painted across the walls. They seem to depict some ancient paradise with elves frolicking among crystal spires in the sky. Leliana and Josephine shoot Cassandra warning looks, and Cassandra stops wiping her hands against her pants.

“Her Worship, the Arbiter of the Moons from the Temple of Scales,” a voice suddenly announces.

Cassandra blinks and stands at attention. Likewise, Leliana and Josephine rise from their seats. Cassandra watches as a small, lithe elvhen woman sweeps into the room. Her robes are intricately woven and embroidered with silver and gold. The two moons thread across her vestments, and thin, hammered plates of silverite and ironbark weave across her robes like dragon’s scales. Branches line her cheekbones in dark ink, and the elf goes to the chair seated at the head of the table.

“His Worship, the Watcher of Shadows from the Temple of Secrets,” the voice continues to announce. “Her Worship, the Witness of the Dead from the Temple of Silence. Her Worship, the Augur of the Hearth from the Temple of Flame.”

Three other elves follow after the first elf, all wearing equally resplendent and intricate vestments. The one called the Watcher looks strikingly like the first elf with the same features and darkness of hair and eyes. There are different tattoos lining his face, and his robes are a deep, rich black dappled with dark umber along the hems. Dark ironbark armors his robes, and his belt is lined with two ceremonial sheathes that are empty. However, Cassandra does not doubt that there are blades hidden in his own robes that he could use at any given moment.

The one called the Witness observes Cassandra and her advisors with a careful eye. She keeps her arms folded, and her robes appear to be a simple dark grey. Cassandra glimpses her back when the Witness turns to pull back her chair. Ironbark dapples down the back of her robes, mimicking the vertebrae of her spine.

The one called the Augur has a easy smile and loose demeanor. Her robes are patterned with small flames in gold and brown thread, and thin sheets of perforated gold line the central part of her chest. The Augur waves to Cassandra and the others. Sparks fly from her hand, and she swats her hand against her thigh to extinguish the miniature flames that spark up. She flashes them a smile again in lieu of an apology, but Cassandra now glimpses the too-sharp points of her teeth in that smile.

The other three take a seat in front of Cassandra and the others. Cassandra has the man who looks like the woman at the head of the table in front of her. He eyes her with disinterest before he flicks his gaze over to the head of the table.

 _“Andaran atish’an,”_ the first elven woman says. She spreads her arms open wide and continues, “I am Ellana of Clan Lavellan, Arbiter of the Moons from the Temple of Mythal. I will be acting as the Keeper for this meeting.” Now, she gestures over to each of the elves and introduces them. “This is my brother, Mahanon of Clan Lavellan, Watcher of Shadows from the Temple of Secrets. This is Lyna of Clan Mahariel, Witness of the Dead from the Temple of Silence, and this is Neria of Clan Surana, Augur of the Hearth from the Temple of Flame. Together, we comprise half of the Arlath’amelan, and we welcome you to the Dales.”

A wry smile curls over her lips, and she laughs softly, “I did not expect the Inquisitor herself to arrive to such a meeting.”

“Why not?” Cassandra asks. “We communicated via letter, did we not?”

“Forgive me, I did not mean to insult,” Ellana of Clan Lavellan says. “I simply did not expect the leader of the organization to come to the heart of the Dales with only two advisors. The Chantry traditionally tends to send quite a few templars, Revered Mothers, and missionaries with them when there arises a need for diplomacy.” She leans in to whisper almost conspiratorially, “Not that I mind. Just a thought.”

“Thank you for meeting with us, your Worship,” Josephine cuts in. “We welcome the opportunity to establish a diplomatic alliance between the Dales and the Inquisition.” She raises a single eyebrow and adds, “But we were under the impression that we would be meeting with the entirety of the Arlath’amelan.”

“I think you would rather have us four here than the other half,” Mahanon finally says. A smile cracks across his face, but it is nowhere near kind.

The question of _why_ bubbles up Cassandra’s throat, but Ellana beats her to it by saying, “Some of our brethren are not as… Open to the idea of this alliance. If the Master of Radiance or the Guide of the Herd was here, then we would not be having a discussion but rather a battle.” She shakes her head. “No, no. Opening our borders or forming an alliance is something that we do not take lightly. The Dales are self-sustaining, and many of our people believe that to be a reason why we should let the borders stay closed.”

“Then why did you agree to this?” Cassandra counters.

Ellana blinks before she offers Cassandra a brief smile. “Because I, along with the others here, believe that we must venture past our sheltered perspectives and work together with the other nations of Thedas to ensure peace and prosperity for all,” she says.

“A rare stance for a Dalish elf,” Cassandra points out. She ignores the way Leliana pinches her under the table.

Ellana says simply, “We are not blind to the plight of the world beyond our borders.”

Now, the elf named Mahariel clears her throat. Cassandra glances over at her, and Lyna of Clan Mahariel arches an eyebrow when she notices Cassandra’s gaze. “The dead do not rest quietly during war,” Lyna says softly. “I out of all people should know. Do you know what my duties as Witness of the Dead are, Inquisitor?”

Cassandra shakes her head.

Lyna spreads her hands out wide and allows the sleeves of her vestments to fall slightly to the side. Now, Cassandra can fully see the details on her robes. In the dark fabric, there’s embroidery done in even darker thread. Cassandra recognizes some of the embroidery as elvhen script, but more importantly, some of the thread is stitched in a way that depicts people. The embroidery spirals and curls around the bodice of Lyna’s vestments, and Cassandra looks back up to see a grim smile on Lyna’s face.

“I record the stories of our people and ensure that their legacy lives on despite their death,” she says slowly. “I chant the funeral rites and sing their lives into the air so that their spirits may be comforted as they cross over with Falon’Din. I see the marks that their deaths make on the Veil and the spirits in the Fade. And do you know what I have seen?”

Cassandra shakes her head again.

Lyna leans in, and her flat, reflective eyes flash the flickering light from the candles back to Cassandra. “The voices of the dead are screaming, Inquisitor,” she murmurs. “Screaming because of the conflicts that threaten to overlap across our shared borders. Both human and elf alike. All of their voices sound the same when they die a death of war. _That_ is the reason why I voted for an alliance, Inquisitor, instead of choosing isolationism like some of my brethren and fellow worshippers wanted. You do your people a disservice when you apply a simple stereotype to the entirety of my people.”

The one Lavellan named as Neria of Clan Surana finally speaks up. “You came here for an alliance. Then let us stop avoiding the main point in flowery language and speak in plain words. I am Neria of Clan Surana as well as the Augur of the Hearth, and I wish to see full proof of the benefits an alliance would give the Dales before I make a decision for my people and for the Temple of Flame.”

“Remember, Inquisitor,” Lyna warns. “The Dales are a united country, knit together by our shared history and our clans. But we are also a country of eight fractions divided by our gods. Each of us comprise one member of our highest council, the Arlath’amelan, and each of us is the leader of the temple of our gods. You must convince all eight of us in order to secure an alliance with the Dales. I agree with the Augur. Let us speak more plainly regarding the terms of this alliance. We are not Orlesians; we do not care to play the Game.”

For once, a smile cracks across Cassandra’s face, and it is truly genuine. This is something that she vastly prefers. Cassandra ignores the disappointed look on her ambassador’s face when she says, “Gladly.” She looks over to Ellana who seems to be the leader of this meeting. The Keeper of the meeting if Cassandra recalls what Ellana said earlier. But Cassandra looks at Ellana directly in the eye and says, “List out what you want, and we will list out what we want. I prefer candor and honesty as well, and let us deal in matters as such.”

An interested look gleams in Ellana’s eyes, enhanced by the fact that her flat, reflective irises shone the light right back at Cassandra. She leans in to prop her elbows on the table and murmurs — almost _purrs_ — “How interesting. How _refreshing_ it is to see such directness from a member of the Chantry, no doubt.”

“I am not here to represent the Chantry,” Cassandra says. “I am here to represent the Inquisition as its leader.”

“Which is the Chantry’s arm, is it not?” Ellana counters.

“The Chantry is split, and neither half knows which is the true half,” Leliana says. “We are here to establish ourselves as the Inquisition and quell the chaos across Thedas.”

“Do your Chantry people not consider that some form of heresy?” Mahanon asks pointedly.

He’s right. Most of the Revered Mothers in Val Royeaux have rejected the Inquisition’s legitimacy. Cassandra refuses to let that stop her though. The Inquisition is Thedas’s and the Chantry’s best chance at reforming the root of the problem causing all of the chaos. The Mage-Templar conflict is something that was endemic to cities across Thedas long before the chantry explosion at Kirkwall and the revolution in the White Spire. She _needs_ this alliance to sustain what she, Leliana, and Divine Justinia hope for: peace.

“Regardless of whether or not we are considered heretics,” Cassandra begins. “We are trying to establish peace across Thedas and reform the nature of the Circles and the Templar Order that caused this war in the first place.” She looks up and pins Ellana of Clan Lavellan with her intense gaze as she says, “And I believe that we can do it with the Dales.”

 

* * *

 

“You want me to _what?”_ Ellana squawks. She chucks another pillow at her brother’s head in her own private chambers back at the Temple of Scales.

Mahanon easily ducks the pillow and repeats, “Marry the Inquisitor.”

“Why?” Ellana plaintively asks.

Mahanon pinches the bridge of his nose and says, “This is going to be my fourth time explaining it, sister dear, so stop fussing and sit down to listen.”

Ellana reluctantly sits on her bed and asks, “Who have you told this idea to?”

“No one else except you,” Mahanon says. He runs a hand through his hair as he complains, “Do you think I would tell anyone else? Or if there is anyone else better at keeping a secret than I? That is my own job description, _Arbiter.”_

“Fine, fine, _Watcher,”_ Ellana tosses back. She reaches for another pillow and hugs it close to her chest as she considers the prospect.

The Inquisition is asking for much. Food, water, supplies, weapons, soldiers to add further strength to their numbers. When Ellana asked for some examples of what their soldiers would be used for, the Inquisition’s spymaster rattled off a list of potential missions within Ferelden, their current base of operations.

First off, Ellana can already identify a number of ways that this could go wrong. Having the Emerald Knights present in other countries could bring up a number of suspicions from the Ferelden king. Ferelden already chafes at the thought of having a Dalish elf as their Hero of the Blight. She cannot imagine how Ferelden, one of the most nationalist, backwater countries in the entirety of Thedas, would take to having even more Dalish elves within their borders.

Also, Ellana cannot imagine how this alliance will pass through the Arlath’amelan and the Vhen’dirth’an. There is very little that the Dales gain out of this alliance. If the Inquisition gains legitimacy in the Chantry’s eyes, then the Dales would reap something worth having an alliance for. They would receive an elevated status among nations and the pointless conflicts along their borders would cease. If they were lucky enough, the Chantry would agree to stop sending so many missionaries to their borders for a few more decades. There would be more gold flowing towards the Dales from the trade lines criss-crossing Thedas.

But, Ellana also worries about what will happen if they do not sign an alliance. Isolation almost led to their doom during the Second Blight. What will they do when isolationism threatens their nation once more? She does not want to live to see her country crumble. True, the Dales can be self-sufficient. But their economy needs trade, and an alliance with the Inquisition would boost that vitality. With the start of the Inquisition’s trade lines, other countries would be more inclined to import Dalish products far more than they have before. Politically, this could allow some minds among the Dales to become more liberally-minded in regards to the world.

Ellana lies back on her bed and considers one of the most important points. Reform of the Circles and the Templar Order. An end to the needless suffering of her fellow brethren beyond the borders of the Dales. These are the things that could nudge the idea of an alliance further in their government, but it is not enough to push it all the way through.

“And you think the Inquisitor is attractive,” Mahanon continues. Ellana almost sputters at the sheer audacity of the accusation, but Mahanon soldiers on. “Do not even think about trying to deny that, sister. I saw the way you looked at her.”

“She has very nice arms,” Ellana grumbles. “And the scar on her cheek is very attractive.”

“Exactly,” Mahanon says smugly. Oh, Ellana wants nothing more than to swat the smirk off Mahanon’s face. He starts ticking off his fingers as he speaks. “The Witness of the Dead is probably the most open to an alliance other than us. Lyna of Clan Mahariel is not a fool, and she is weary of the fights along the borders. Too many bodies pile up in her temple for her to inscribe, and if this alliance brings an end to that, she would be willing to do nearly anything. Besides, if we have Clan Mahariel’s support, this alliance might gain some approval from Ferelden as well. If I recall correctly, Isena of Clan Mahariel is their Hero of Ferelden from the Fifth Blight.”

Ellana gets up and leans towards Mahanon. “And the Augur of the Hearth is willing as well,” she says. “Neria of Clan Surana is less interested in trade and more interested in the mage-templar conflict. If an alliance means a reform of the Circles, she would gladly welcome it. I think her clan has been one of the hardest hit by kidnappings and attacks from templars. The Artificer of Resolution — Nelaros of Clan Alerion —  is the most neutral in this matter, but I think even he would see the benefits of trade and an increased economy.”

“And if we convince the Artificer, then we convince the Archer of Bone as well,” Mahanon says. “Clan Tabris and Clan Alerion have always been close partners, and Kallian, the Archer, would likely listen to Nelaros more than us."

“But the Master of Radiance and the Guide of the Herd,” Ellana sighs heavily. “The Guide seems the easier to convince between the two, but even then, our odds do not seem optimistic.”

“Mihris values what is best for her clan,” Mahanon muses. “Even though she is not _supposed_ to be that selective in her interests. We just need to figure out what Clan Virnehn will get out of this alliance in order to sway the Guide and the Temple of Journeys to our side.”

“Then what about Velanna?” Ellana asks. “The only strong loyalty the Master of Radiance has other than her ties to the temple is to her sister, Seranni, and Seranni is far beyond our reach. Even then, a Grey Warden like Seranni cannot affect the path of politics. The Vhen’dirth’an would bar her from talking to Velanna until diplomatic talks were over.” Ellana scowls as she complains, “And everyone else from the Temple of the Sun tends towards conservatism and isolationism. They enjoy the prospects of war far more than any other temple in the Dales. Fools, all of them, almost like their fool god, Elgar’nan.”

“No need for disrespect now, no matter how much of a grudge your temple may have towards theirs,” Mahanon chides.

Ellana bristles at Mahanon and snaps back, “The Temple of the Sun consistently tries to supercede the Temple of Scales in _my_ matters and _my_ business that they have no jurisdiction over. How would _you_ like it if the Temple of Silence tried to take over your archives in the Temple of Knowledge?”

Mahanon’s only concession is the slight twist of his lips. However, he quickly marshals his composure together. “Enough about our own petty squabbles. Back to the main point at hand. If you marry the Inquisitor, you may be able to work in more benefits to the alliance,” Mahanon says. “And if you marry the Inquisitor, you block the Master of Radiance and the Guide of the Herd from proposing ideas and policies that would directly harm the Inquisition. They cannot harm a partner of a temple leader according to our customs.”

“And what makes you think that I would be willing to marry a woman from the Chantry?” Ellana counters. She gestures to herself and tweaks her own pointed ear as she says, “Just because she has a pretty face does not mean she holds poison in her mind. Not only is she the Inquisitor, she is the Right Hand of the Divine and a Seeker and a dragon-slayer from the Pentaghast family. She has Chantry faith forged into her blood and bones. Who is to say that she will even agree to this? And who is to say that I will not die or even worse, be made Tranquil by a templar’s hand? Who is to say that I will not die from our shared hubris in this matter?!”

Mahanon shrugs. “I do not know, but you _did_ dream in the Chamber of Dreams after our meeting. We may not know how much Chantry poison is in her mind, but you out of all people will likely have the best gauge of it.”

“Excellent,” Ellana sighs heavily. “Absolutely excellent, dearest brother of mine.”

“I am your only brother,” Mahanon points out.

“And thank the Creators for that,” Ellana mutters.

But Mahanon is right as he almost always is.

On the same night she met the Inquisitor, Ellana stayed within the Chamber of Dreams to sleep. There, she entered the Fade through her dreams and sifted through the marks their souls made against the fabric of the Veil. The Inquisitor was not wicked of heart. Cassandra Pentaghast was a righteous soul, and Ellana saw her representation in the Fade manifested as a spirit of Justice. Her spymaster was colored slightly richer with the color of secrets while her ambassador glittered like gold. But even then, Ellana saw their good intentions imprinted into the Fade. That was the benefit of having meetings in the Chamber of Secrets. The Veil there was so incredibly thin that the remnants of reality often made their way over to the other side of the Veil. It made it easy for Ellana and other Dreamers in the Dales to see what people’s true thoughts and purposes were with enough time, magic, and help from other spirits.

And so, Ellana considers Cassandra Pentaghast in the span of a mere moment. A pretty face and a righteous soul.

Ellana gives Mahanon the nastiest glare she can summon up before she relents and says, “I will not be the one to bring up this idea to the Inquisition.”

A spark gleams in Mahanon’s eyes. “Of course not, dearest sister of mine,” he says, mimicking Ellana’s tone of voice. “I will let my agent within the Inquisition bring it up to Sister Nightingale.”

“You have an agent in the Inquisition?!” Ellana exclaims.

Mahanon winks at Ellana. “Multiple agents. Oh, Ellana, stop glaring at me. I am the Watcher of Shadows from the Temple of _Secrets._ I would shame my own god, Dirthamen, if I did not have a single agent in that new-bud organization of theirs. You have your courts and your judges, and I have my eyes and ears across Thedas.”

“Sometimes,” Ellana grumbles. “I think I would rather have a network of spies rather than dealing with the judiciary.”

“Should have picked Dirthamen for your vallaslin then, sister.”

“Over my dead body.”

 

* * *

 

Leliana stares at her agent with a bewildered look. “Marriage?” she repeats. “Are you sure that’s going to work with the Dales?”

This agent is a city elf. Daughter of an exiled Dalish elf and a human cobbler, Cobbler was one of Leliana’s most talented agents. Leliana specifically brought her along this time because of her grudge against the Dales and for her connections from her mother. And now, Cobbler brings her this idea: the idea of an arranged marriage between one of the members of the Arlath’amelan and Inquisitor Cassandra Pentaghast herself.

“Nobles do it often enough,” Cobbler says with a shrug. “Look at that queen from Antiva ages back. Those old marriages are still one of the reasons why no one has dared to attack Antiva whether there be Crows or not. Try bringing up the idea of an arranged marriage to the Arlath’amelan and see how they take it.”

“And what if they don’t take it well?” Leliana counters. “I know you have good ideas, Cobbler, but this seems a little farfetched.”

“No, no, listen to me,” Cobbler says. “Get an arranged marriage, and maybe have the Inquisitor pick who she wants to marry. The Inquisitor is human, not some kind of unfeeling rock, even if she looks like it most of the time. If she wants to get it on, let her get it on with someone she visually likes at the very least. And also, you can always get a divorce later on if things don’t work out. It’ll be fine. Sister Nightingale, even you know that divorce isn’t as rare as you think. Some people just don’t get along, and that’s something out of the Maker’s and the Creators’ hands.”

“Does this violate some sort of ancient custom or cultural tenet of the Dalish?” Leliana inquires.

Cobbler snorts, “Nah, all those crazy elves do tons of arranged marriages between clans and temples and all that. It’s one of the reasons why my mom left. She didn’t want to be in an arranged marriage or get traded to a different clan. You humans do the same thing with nobles. It’s not that rare of an idea.”

Leliana leans back in her chair and tents her hands together. It’s an interesting idea, and it’s one that isn’t the rarest of ideas. Like Cobbler said, Leliana is no stranger to the convenience and the political meanings behind an arranged marriage. If Josephine and Leliana play their cards just right, this arranged marriage could do much for the Inquisition.

Now, the only pending issue was the matter of convincing Cassandra to go through with it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there was an arranged marriage prompt on tumblr that i saw + i was thinking about what would happen if the dales survived the exalted march after writing the exalted march au. essentially, i envisioned the dales becoming a bicameral government comprised of the arlath'amelan, a council comprised of eight religious leaders representing the evanuris, and the vhen'dirth'an, a legislature comprised of the keepers of the clans. 
> 
> also, i wanted to name the temples something else other than "the temple of mythal" so i took some liberties with the names. for example, mythal is the goddess of justice and has dragon motifs, so i named it "the temple of scales" to represent the scales of justice as well as dragon scales. um, i'm still hammering some details out, but different temples have different jurisdictions within elvhen government. 
> 
> definitely an au and a world setting that's clearly unfinished. i might develop this into a full fic later on, but for now, here are these little snippets.


	5. traveler

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> // traveling keeper au

They’re all drinking and carousing in Merrill’s house to celebrate the first new buds of her garden.

It’s not that Merrill is a bad gardener. In fact, Varric would probably call her one of the best gardeners in the entire alienage. She has a way of singing out the roots and the buds and the sprouts in such a natural fashion that it almost doesn’t seem like magic at all. However, the soil and ground of Kirkwall are both stubborn after being watered with blood and stone and steel for so long. 

But Merrill finally does it.

So, Varric can’t help but cheer for her and buy the rounds of alcohol himself. Hawke and the others help him haul all the food and alcohol down to Merrill’s house, and they drink and laugh in Merrill’s garden and her house. Both of her doors are open, front and back, and some of the other elves in the alienage come to celebrate too.  Varric likes this sense of camaraderie and tries to search for all the words to it. His fingers itch for his pen, and the words bristle on his tongue, ready to be sent out into the world. But Varric puts his hand down on the table, swallows down the words, and decides to enjoy the party for what it is instead of its worth as a piece of writing. Isn’t this better in the end? His friends, the laughter, the vibrant music twisting its way through the air. 

He’s happy. He has no need to record this down; he’s satisfied to keep this moment in his memory alone.

Merrill brings another bottle over to top up Varric’s mug, and she sets the bottle down with a clink once she’s done. A laugh gives a certain kind of light to her face, and it makes her smile gleam with a brilliance.  _ Daisy, _ Varric thinks.  _ Nickname suits her more than anything else. _

_ “Ma serannas, _ ” Merrill says as she leans against the wood wall. “This is so much fun, Varric!”

Varric raises his mug up to Merrill and inclines his head. “I’m happy to have a chance to celebrate anything,” he tells her. “And honestly? You getting the city to grow something new is worth the celebration. Go ahead and eat and drink as much as you want. Just make me that Dalish flatbread thing later, and I’ll be a happy dwarf.”

Merrill nods eagerly as she says, “Oh, of  _ course, _ Varric! It’s so easy to make, and I can make it anytime you want and—”

She’s interrupted by the sound of a soft knock against wood. Varric wouldn’t have noticed it if Merrill hadn’t stopped talking so abruptly. Her eyes go wide, and he can see her pupils dilate. Her lips press together into a thin line and shake before she shudders and sucks back a gasp. Varric turns to follow the direction of her gaze, and he sees a thin Dalish elf on Merrill’s doorstep. She has a walking staff casually in her hand and a bow and quiver of arrows slung across her shoulder. Like Merrill, she has vallaslin curling around her cheeks, but the pattern is different. 

Varric’s not a fool. He notices the way her fingers curl around the staff and sees the way the Dalish carvings run all the way down the stick. That elf isn’t an archer; there’s nothing else that elf could be if not a  _ mage. _

_ “Shi’amelan,” _ Merrill breathes out. She takes a step forward, and Varric can glimpse the way her hands twitch into symbols. “What brings you here to Kirkwall,  _ shi’amelan?” _ she asks hesitantly.

The elf steps towards Merrill, heedless of the party happening around her, and she smiles at Merrill. The smile doesn’t reach her dark eyes entirely though. “It is good to see you, Merrill of Clan Sabrae,” she says lightly. “I hear that Clan Sabrae has not moved from their position on Sundermount. Keeper Marethari will not tell me the reason why.”

“Oh, the Keeper won’t tell me why either,” Merrill rushes to say. “So, I don’t think I have any more information to offer you,  _ shi’amelan, _ truly, I don’t think so!” Her voice sounds strained and brittle, and Varric narrows his eyes on the strange elf. He doesn’t trust her a single bit if she sets Merrill on edge like this.

“Who are you?” he decides to say. “One of Merrill’s friends? I don’t think we’ve met before. I’m Varric, Varric Tethras. And you?”

The elf considers him for a moment before her tight smile eases into a smaller one. She dips her head into a Dalish bow before she says, “Ellana of Clan Lavellan. Pleased to meet you, serah. I’ve heard of your name before. They say you are a talented writer.”

“Oh, do you read my books?” Varric asks. He steps in between this new Lavellan person and Merrill. “Always happy to meet a new fan,” he says with a false smile.

Lavellan pastes on her own false smile as well. “I was lucky enough to be taught how to read and write Common,” she says. “Not many Dalish do, but I enjoyed it. There is much that others write that deserves to be read.” She glances up at Merrill who flinches under her gaze, and without looking at Varric, she softly says, “I apologize if I am intruding, but may I have a word with Merrill?”

Varric glares at Lavellan and snaps, “I’m sure you could say anything that you had to say to her in front of me.” He gestures out to the open doors and says, “It’s not like there’s much privacy here anyways.”

Lavellan sighs before she arches an eyebrow at Merrill. “Are you alright with that,  _ lethallan?” _ she asks. “You must know what I’m here about already.”

“Yes,” Merrill says in a gusty breath. “I don’t mind. He knows already.”

“Hm,” Lavellan comments. She re-settles her staff in her hand again before she says lowly, “The Free Marches knows about your… Esoteric habits, Merrill of Clan Sabrae. The rumors are spreading, and I cannot control them. Soon, you will not be welcomed as easily as you once was. My brother warned you via raven already, yes?”

Merrill nods, and Lavellan sighs. Varric flicks his gaze between the two elves and doesn’t like what he sees. There’s a solemn kind of seriousness on Lavellan’s face that almost seems too old for her young features, and there’s a fear creeping across Merrill’s face. Merrill glances over at Varric before she whispers, “I know the blood… The blood doesn’t seem alright, but I promise that it is. I’m only using mine! No one else’s. Never that. Never.”

“I know,  _ lethallan,” _ Lavellan sighs. “But members of Clan Sabrae are reporting back with horrific stories, and it is my duty to carry those stories with me. The words of fifteen other people of Clan Sabrae outweigh your own. Your Keeper refuses to speak ill of you, but there are many remaining in Clan Sabrae that insist otherwise. The patience of the other clans wears thin.” 

She casts a look over to Varric before she clears her throat and addresses him. “Excuse me,” she murmurs. “I am sorry for involving you, but you seem to be quite close with her. Please make sure that our Merrill stays safe. For both her benefit and ours.” She drags her gaze back up to Merrill and says, “I will vouch for you,  _ lethallan, _ when I visit other clans. Both Feynriel and Arianni speak well of you and your friends, and I will take their word over Clan Sabrae’s. For now.”

Merrill reaches out for Lavellan’s hand, and despite the dimming light, Varric can see the scars stretching out over Merrill’s wrist.  _ “Ma serannas, shi’amelan,”  _ she says almost fervently. “I am sorry for causing so much trouble.”

“What trouble?” Varric cuts in. He looks at Lavellan and demands, “What’s going on? What’s happening to Merrill?”

Lavellan gives Varric a stony glare, but Merrill nudges Lavellan and says, “I trust him,  _ shi’amelan. _ He is a good friend. He would never betray me.” She looks over to Varric with wide eyes and asks, “Right?”

Varric exhales slowly, but he nods.

Lavellan seems satisfied with that answer. As she shifts her staff over to her other hand, she quietly says, “The Dalish do not look kindly on those who abandon their clan for reasons such as Merrill.” Merrill looks like she’s about to retort something back, but Lavellan holds up her hand. Merrill subsides, and Lavellan continues, “Simply put, I am trying to clear Merrill’s name among the clans and keep her from any, ah, how should I put it?” 

She taps her staff against the floorboard as she thinks, and the sound unnerves Varric. Lavellan sighs out softly, “Consequences.”

The word chills Varric, and he looks over at Merrill. Her hands are white-knuckled fists now, and she says, “I am trying to do something for our people,  _ shi’amelan.” _

“You think you are,” Lavellan says. She cocks her head to the side and continues, “I do not know if you are correct or not yet. But the world will be watching, Merrill of Clan Sabrae.  _ Mythal’enaste, lethallan. _ I hope I will not have to come see you again.”

“Are you here on other business?” Merrill suddenly asks.

Lavellan has already turned to leave, but she pauses. She glances back at Merrill and flashes her a smile. “Always,” she tells Merrill. 

She takes a step forward, but Merrill rushes to say, “There are three mages hiding in the alienage. Two girls, one boy. The templars and the guards have rotated their patrols, so the templars are patrolling tomorrow. Tonight is your night to take it if you wish,  _ shi’amelan.” _

Lavellan does not offer up another word, but she does nod once. When she leaves Merrill’s house, she leaves behind a small trace of magic on the wood of Merrill’s door. Merrill gasps when she sees it and turns to Varric excitedly. “That’s dream magic, Varric!” she says. “Oh, I won’t have nightmares for weeks now! Oh, well, they might come in through the back door, but they certainly won’t come through to the front now! Oh, this is wonderful!”

Varric furrows his brow with confusion and runs a hand through his hair. He has no idea what’s going on. The confusion on his face must be evident enough, even for Merrill, and she pauses. The music and the celebrations are still occurring all around them, almost as if Lavellan was never there. But Merrill tilts her face to the side and looks at him with a peculiar look. “You don’t understand, don’t you?” she says slowly. “Why, of course. You wouldn’t know. No one knows.”

She leans in and whispers, “You must keep this a secret, alright?”

Varric spreads his hands out and says, “When have I ever told a secret of yours without your permission?”

“Not even your book,” Merrill whispers fiercely. The intensity of her voice startles Varric into silence, and he nods. Merrill glances around them surreptitiously before she quietly says, “Do you know that  _ shi’amelan _ means? It means, in the loosest terms, a traveling Keeper, and the Lavellans, Mahanon and Ellana, are the ones to keep the Dalish connected for this region. But they’re more than that. They save elves from the Circle, keep the elders of the alienages up to date, guide runaways to where they need to be, and whatever else they need to do. They’ll do it.”

Merrill inhales a shaky breath before she admits, “And that includes saving my name with the Dalish, no matter what some of my clanmates might say about me.”

Varric gapes at Merrill, and she laughs nervously. “That’s that,” she says as she leans away. She reaches over for the bottle of alcohol again and tries to pour more into Varric’s mug, but she finds that it’s still full from before. She sighs and sets the bottle back down.

“I won’t tell anyone,” Varric finally says. “Thank you for trusting me with this.”

“Oh,” Merrill says, blinking at Varric. “I would trust you with anything, Varric.”

She says it in such an honest manner that it feels like a sucker-punch to Varric’s chest. He sighs out slowly and tucks the secret of this Ellana of Clan Lavellan deep in the crevices of his memory. This will not be one that will ever be touched by pen or paper. This is one that he’ll keep there forever.

For Merrill’s sake, at the very least.

And later, that memory is the same memory that flashes through Varric’s head when he sees the elf stumble out of the snows of Haven by Cassandra’s side. She still has the same vallaslin, the same dark hair and eyes, and the same intensity in her eyes when she tackles the demons and the rifts. Her magic crackles along her skin with a much brighter hue though, and the Anchor flaming on her hand is also new.

But when Ellana of Clan Lavellan and Varric Tethras first meet in the wreckage of the Conclave, they both know where they have met before.

 

* * *

 

There’s something strange to how quickly Lavellan ingratiates herself with other elves.

Cassandra thought it was normal at first. Lavellan is Dalish; of course she would get along with other Dalish clans and other elves easily. But then, she saw Solas — someone who professed himself to be a scholar of ancient lore, including elven traditions — fumble over a Dalish tea set and almost invoke the wrath and ire of an entire Fereldan clan. Apparently, he broke a tradition that was older than the fall of the Dales. If Lavellan wasn’t there to smooth things over in the Hinterlands, Cassandra doubts that they would’ve made it out safely.

Lavellan also behaves strangely in the wild. Oh, in fact, Cassandra thinks that Lavellan becomes a different creature in the wilderness, far beyond the towns and cities that they pass through. There’s a visible change that settles over Lavellan’s shoulders when they leave Redcliffe and plunge straight into the fields of the Hinterlands. Her pupils dilate and her straight shoulders fall into a slope that allows her to reach for her staff or her bow at any given time. Her steps become nearly silent, and she tracks the pattern of the wind with her skin and her outstretched finger. 

Lavellan stops by every piece of ore and every herb she comes across, and it’s so frustrating to Cassandra. However, Cassandra can’t miss the way Lavellan paints a couple of symbols across the rocks where she finds the ore. When Cassandra asks about it, Lavellan simply shrugs and smiles, “I enjoy drawing.”

Varric also shrugs and says, “Don’t worry too much about it, Seeker. I knew a Dalish elf once, kinda like Birdie over there. Liked picking flowers and drawing symbols and doing all sorts of Dalish stuff. Never hurt her, never brought us much harm until…” He trails and laughs a short, sharp bark of a laugh. “Well, that was something else entirely, but Daisy was like that. Don’t worry too much about it, Seeker.”

Lavellan pauses and cocks her head. One of her pointed ears flattens against her head, and she quietly murmurs, “Merrill of Clan Sabrae, formerly of Clan Alerion.”

“How did you know?” Solas asks with bemusement. “He never even mentioned her name.” 

Lavellan gives him a flat smile. “I lived in the Free Marches too,” she tells him. “And Merrill of Clan Sabrae is not exactly a subtle one.”

Varric grimaces before he nods to Solas and admits, “Yeah, you’re right on that. She’s a sweet one though.”

“Of course,” Lavellan says. She tucks her pieces of ore into her satchel and repeats, “Of course.” 

Cassandra watches the exchange before she turns away and continues on their path. She shouldn’t be this suspicious of Lavellan. If anything, Lavellan has already proven her worth and her loyalty in Cassandra’s eyes. And if anything, Lavellan is kind,  _ kinder  _ than Cassandra ever expected. But even so, Cassandra feels like there is something off that she’s not completely seeing. Varric and Lavellan even exchange looks before they carry on with their work in the Hinterlands.

Cassandra doesn’t understand it, but she settles for the silence as an answer instead.

 

* * *

  
  
“I have never heard of your name before, Solas,” Lavellan says once.

He’s sitting by the campfire, jotting down a couple of notes in his journal before he goes to bed. Lavellan is on first watch, and Solas is on after that. Both Dorian and Sera are fast asleep, and he’s the only one left awake that shouldn’t be.  But instead of tucking himself into his pallet, Solas looks up and meets Lavellan’s eyes. The low light from the smoldering embers is still enough light to reflect off of her irises, and she blinks slowly at Solas. “I have never heard of your name among my people before, Solas,” she repeats.   


“I’ve said this before to you, I think,” Solas chooses to respond. He speaks the words almost lazily, and they barely drop off his tongue. “I do not consider myself to be part of  _ your _ people. I’m afraid I do not identify much with them.”

“I do not speak of the Dalish when I say the phrase, ‘my people,’ Solas,” Lavellan evenly replies. “I mean the elves of Thedas when I say it, and we are both elves, are we not?”

“But you are Dalish,” Solas points out. “You hail from Clan Lavellan, yes? I cannot imagine there was much opportunity to reside among other elves of the Free Marches, much less the elves of Thedas. That’s a rather broad term to use.”

Lavellan smiles, but it is more like a baring of her teeth rather than the showing of a smile. “Ah, so you do not know,” she muses. “You claim to be a traveller, a dreamer, a seeker of lost lore in the ruins of our people and the battlefields of this country. Yet, in all of my travels, I have never heard of an elf named Solas.”

A small note of alarm begins to grow in Solas’s chest. “I’m afraid I haven’t traveled much in the Free Marches,” he decides to say. Perhaps this will throw her off the trail.

It doesn’t. It doesn’t faze Lavellan at all. She leans in closer to Solas, still with that smile that seems more like wolf than elf, and says, “I see. I see. You see, I have also traveled beyond the Free Marches, and I still have not heard a single word about you from  _ my _ people. Thus, I must conclude that you do not know of travelers and their paths and the dreams that we dream and the people that we connect.” She leans back into her place, balancing on the balls of her feet clad only in leg wrappings. 

“Then, you are correct, Solas,” she finally says. “You are not one of my people. In fact, I have to wonder where you truly do hail from if you are not one of my people. Good night then. I shall wake you for the next watch.” She straightens up and grabs her staff in one easy, fluid motion and carefully picks her way through the grass to take up her post by the perimeter of the camp.

Solas watches her leave and feels distinctly unsettled. Perhaps he underestimated this Lavellan. 

He should be wary.

 

* * *

 

Lavellan says that she’s never belonged to any other clan other than Clan Lavellan.

When Lavellan asks her why she asked, Cassandra says, “I heard that Minaeve was chased out by her clan. I heard a similar story from Dalish in Bull’s Chargers too. There’s a few Dalish elves joining the Inquisition that are saying that they were from two clans.”

Lavellan’s eyes flash with fury when Cassandra mentions Minaeve’s name, but Lavellan tamps it down with such a speed that Cassandra wonders if she was seeing Lavellan correctly. Lavellan taps her chin with her index finger before she slowly says, “We can come from different clans. The situation varies.” She exhales slowly before she glances up at Cassandra again. “I am telling you this because I trust you,” she says softly. “And I ask that you tell no one what I am going to tell you.” 

“Of course,” Cassandra says with confusion. Her heart warms when she hears Lavellan’s words though.  _ I trust you. _ It’s a sentiment that doesn’t come lightly from Lavellan. No matter how many days and weeks pass, Lavellan still has her staff with her at all times, even when she sleeps, and she never turns her back to them in battle unless she has a barrier up on herself. She still smiles and laughs and spends her days with her inner circle, but Cassandra can see the remnants of the wariness in the lines of Lavellan’s body. So, this means so much more to Cassandra.

Lavellan sighs and extends her non-marked hand out, palm side up. A small spark of magic starts to grow and dance in the center of her palm, and Cassandra can feel the Fade channeling through Lavellan with her Seeker senses. “We revere magic,” Lavellan begins. The spark starts to slowly revolve as she speaks. “We have revered magic since the fall of Arlathan. Mages are special to us because they still hold the connection that we lost with the fall. We even rotate mages around the different clans if one clan is lacking and if one clan is blessed enough. That is one way where you can come from two different clans. Born to one and given to another. Both are honors that we bear, and some choose to honor that by holding both clan names.” 

She narrows her eyes and murmurs, “Dalish from the Chargers is not telling us all the complete truth, but I know. And Minaeve… Minaeve’s case is something that is unacceptable. I have already sent my messages to the clans regarding her case, and there will be  _ consequences _ for such a treatment.” Lavellan’s voice grows cold, and she bites out the word, “consequences”, with a kind of viciousness that startles Cassandra.

She looks at Cassandra and says, “There is something that you must understand about the Dalish. We do not abandon our own. Even when the worst comes to pass, we will try to salvage what is left and heal our people back together. We have so little left, Cassandra, so a loss to one of our clans is devastating. Throwing someone to the wild and to the wolves of the land with such a flimsy reason as Minaeve’s is something unforgivable.” 

“I… I think I can understand,” Cassandra says slowly. “I can’t say that I’ve ever experienced such a thing with magic, but I can understand the sentiment. We never abandon our fellow brothers and sisters in the Order.” She cocks her head and regards Lavellan carefully. “You seem to know a lot about the different clans, but you’ve only ever lived in one,” she says.

“Correct,” Lavellan says. She fiddles her thumbs together before she finally says, “I am a _ shi’amelan _ and I walk the  _ dirthan’shiral: _ a traveling Keeper on the Path of Speech. I have traveled across the hills and fields and seas to connect and bridge our people together. We keep our identities secret because the death of a  _ shi’amelan _ means the death of a speaker, the death of a Keeper, the death of a root that connects our disparate clans together.”

Cassandra is wide-eyed as she listens to Lavellan explain. The way Lavellan says each word is almost reverent and delicate, and she whispers each word with such care. Lavellan exhales slowly before she admits, “It was the reason why I was there at the Conclave to begin with. The Free Marches are so far away, but I had business with a clan near the mountains, and Ferelden’s travelers were too far away to reach Haven on time.” She spreads her hands out as she shrugs. “It is also why my brother was so close to Haven. I refused to let him come with me to the Conclave, but we travel together. He waited for me to return, but then, I never did. So, he searched for me instead.”

Lavellan blinks at Cassandra slowly, steadily. Then, she lays one of her hands flat on Cassandra’s hand. It’s the Anchored hand, and the Anchor sends small sparks of magic dancing down Cassandra’s skin. “I am telling you this because so trust you,” she says firmly. “I trust that you will keep this secret as carefully as I have done for so many years, as my people have for so many centuries. We cannot let the templars or the magisters know about this. Otherwise, they will hunt us down and return our people back to their prisons.”

“What do you mean?” Cassandra asks.

Lavellan gives Cassandra a grim smile as she answers, “We save our people from the Circle and the slavers when we can. Some of the more daring travelers near the Tevinter border enter the country itself to save the slaves there.”

“Have you ever done anything like that?” Cassandra asks as she gapes at Lavellan. Lavellan only gives her a cryptic smile and lays one finger against her lips in silence. Cassandra exhales and squeezes Lavellan’s other hand. “Your secret is safe with me,” she promises. “I won’t tell a single soul.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i saw a tumblr post on my dash abt traveling keepers + i can't find the post again, but it inspired me to write a little bit. i think ellana would suit the life of a traveling keeper much better, and it would make more sense to have an elf from the free marches go to the conclave in ferelden too. just a thought though.


	6. shape and its purpose

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> // shapeshifter au
> 
> (although admittedly, i have this marked down as "diy" au in my drafts)

“We need an Inquisitor,” Leliana says.

Cassandra sighs and slowly starts to undo the braid in her hair. “We have nothing,” she tells Leliana. “No Hawke, no Warden. What do you expect me to do about it?” She wearily takes off her armor piece by piece. 

“No,” Leliana says, eyes intense and dark. “I know a way.”

Cassandra pauses, hand still on her pauldron, and warily asks, “What is it?” 

Leliana exhales out a soft, sibilant sigh and whispers, “We make our own.”

 

* * *

 

“A mirror to reflect the light of the moons and trap it inside,” the old woman instructs. “Halla’s horn, wolf’s bone, and dragon’s scale. This is what you need to build yourself the Inquisitor that you need.”

Her eyes are paler than glass itself, and her silver hair glints as the flickering candelight burnishes the woman over with gold. The candle is the only light in the dark Lowtown hut, and Cassandra purses her lips together with too much suspicion. This sounds like blood magic.

She glances over at Leliana who leans against the wall, half-cast in shadows. “Are you sure about this?” Cassandra asks.

The old woman cackles when Cassandra asks the question, and she leans away from the candle to flip the window shutters open. Silver from the moons cuts in through the slats and blanches the woman in pale light. “You don’t have many options left, Seeker,” she says. Her voice cracks with too much age caught between the syllables. “I would not be telling you this if you had any other option.”

Cassandra stubbornly waits for Leliana’s response, but she finds stony silence instead. So, Cassandra turns to the old woman and demands, “Where did you find this out? What kind of credentials do you have? What is even your name?”

The old woman’s face creaks into a smile as she says conspiratorially, “I hear the answers on the whispering winds from ages and ages away. I have lived life after life, survived death after death, and there will be no else better than I who understands the crux of the situation you find yourselves in. And my name? Why, girl, I have been called many names over the centuries, but you may call me Flemeth.”

Leliana finally speaks now before Cassandra can say any word in response. “Yes, Cassandra, she’s the same Flemeth the Warden and I knew during the Blight,” she says. “She was right about many things from the Archdemon to the troubles that we would face. I would not treat her words lightly.”

“So you want us to perform blood magic?” Cassandra sputters.

That only makes the old woman cackle once more, but this time, they turn into wheezing breaths of air that turn into wisps of laughter at the very edges. “Oh, blood magic is another beast entirely, Seeker,” she says. “Shouldn’t you, out of all people, know better? You hunt maleficar down as your career. Consider what I’ve told you and see whether or not that’s blood magic.”

Leliana pushes away from the wall and circles around to face Cassandra. She pushes the cowl back from her face and lets the light bathe her bare face. The candlelight makes the edges of her hair look like copper but the moonlight dulls it down to the color of old metal. The look in Leliana’s eyes is, for a lack of better terms, haunted as she murmurs, “Flemeth told me that this was the only way to have the Conclave continue without Divine Justinia’s death. I don’t care what you think, Cassandra, but I will go through this alone if I have to.”

“What? No, you can’t do that,” Cassandra gasps.

“There are many things that your Nightingale can do,” Flemeth observes. “Take care to not limit her infinite capacity for good and evil. This falls solely down the middle, if you were wondering.” She stands up, and the joints in her body crack and pop as she stands. “If you decide to go through with it, then there is one final piece of information I will tell you before I leave for good.” Flemeth leans closer and whispers, “In a week’s worth of time, both the moons of Thedas will grow full and round. That is when you need to go to Sundermount and perform the ritual. If you need a guide, then Merrill of Clan Sabrae will do.”

“Understood,” Leliana says, slow and quiet. “Thank you, Flemeth.”

“Ah, I always love people with good manners,” Flemeth sighs. “Until next time, Nightingale, Seeker.” 

The next time Cassandra blinks, she opens her eyes to find that Flemeth is gone. The candle’s flame is extinguished, and a thin trail of smoke rises up from its charred wick. Leliana looks at Cassandra, and the stubborn set of her face lets Cassandra know that there is no way to change Leliana’s mind from this. She relents with a sigh and says, “I’ll follow you there but only to protect you.”

 

* * *

 

In the light of the moons, Sundermount gleams darkly red. 

Cassandra tries to rationalize it as rust or drakestone coloring the mountain with a scarlet hue, but their Dalish guide dreamily says, “Oh, that’s a very easy answer. There were a good deal of wars and battles and rituals on Sundermount. Too much blood spilled into the mountain made it red like the blood it ate up.” She hesitates, and a shadow crosses over her face as she murmurs, “I’ve seen the mountain do it before. With blood, that is. The rock drinks up spilled blood faster than anything I’ve ever seen elsewhere.”

Leliana offers no response, so Cassandra follows her cue and stays quiet as she follows Merrill of Clan Sabrae through the winding caverns. Merrill glances back at them and says, “I know the spiders were unpleasant, but we’re at the end of it now. Asha’bellenar told me that she kept the ghosts away for another day since we were going to do very big magic tonight. The altar’s right up there.”

They approach an opening out of the cave, and when Cassandra crawls through it, she squints at her surroundings. There are tombs, some broken but most intact, and at the very far end of the ledge, there’s an altar carved out of white stone. Merrill walks towards it without any hesitation, so Cassandra follows after her. However, she swears she can glimpse numerous faces in the fog swathing over the mountain. 

“I have the materials,” Leliana says. “What should I do with them?” 

“Place the mirror face-up on the altar,” Merrill instructs. “Everyone should pick one piece to set down on the altar on top of the mirror. I will choose… Halla’s horn. And you?” 

Leliana fishes out the mirror out of her pouch and lays it down on the altar. She hands the halla horn over to Merrill who delicately places right on top of the mirror. Leliana reaches in her pouch again with a wolf’s jawbone and shrugs, “I suppose I’m taking wolf’s bone.”

“Oh, that leaves dragon’s scale for the Seeker,” Merrill says with a smile too bright for the dark ritual they’re about to undertake. “How very interesting! I would very much like to see the way this all turns out in the end.”

Cassandra grimaces as she reaches for the dragon’s scale. Leliana sets the jawbone down on the mirror first before stepping aside to allow Cassandra to approach the altar. Cassandra’s too wary to approach, so she reaches out with her Seeker’s senses first. She doesn’t sense any of the acrid tang nor the virulent sensation of blood magic active along the mirror yet. Instead, she only senses something that feels vaguely like open fields and open skies. The magic feels tenuous when she presses against it, but it doesn’t feel malevolent either. Cassandra steps forward, and with that step, she can smell the faint scent of embrium on the night breeze. The dragon’s scale feels almost _warm_ in Cassandra’s hand, but she finally sets it down on top of the mirror.

The minute Cassandra sets the dragon’s scale down, the entire world feels like it’s coming too sharply into focus, and the light of the full moons grows brighter. Two beams of moonlight center in on the mirror, and they glow so brightly that Cassandra has to stumble away from the mirror with her hand covering her eyes. Her senses can feel something coiling around the epicenter of the mirror, twisting and spiraling in on itself over and over again. The scent of embrium grows stronger until Cassandra can smell an entire field’s worth of wildflowers. The scent deepens into ambrette and then, the undeniable, crackling taste of _magic_ begins to spread over her tongue.

The light dies down, and now, Cassandra can see a whirling miasma of magic circling over the mirror. First, she hears the call of a halla: a trumpet that echoes against the ancient, blood-reddened stones of Sundermount. It turns the magic into a soft blue that is the color of the skies on a peaceful autumn day. Second, she hears the howl of a wolf: lonely and heart-wrenching and desperate in all the ways the wild can ever be. The magic turns green and starts sputtering copper-napalm sparks all over the white altar. Third, she hears the roar of a dragon that makes the very ground shake as if the day of reckoning was already upon them. The magic stretches out into the shape of dragon’s wings and turns a bright silver threaded over and over again with innumerable tree branches.

The magic then collapses in on itself and forms the shape of a humanoid figure. The light dies down, and now, Cassandra dares to approach it. The mirror, the horn, the jawbone, and the scale are all gone. In its place is a single elvhen woman, dark-haired and lithe, and lined over with the same branches that Cassandra saw in the dragon. She glances up at Cassandra and lifts a single hand in greeting towards her. In the center of her palm, there is a mark that glows viridian and emerald and all other shades of green caught in between. 

Cassandra hesitates, but the elvhen woman smiles with sharp teeth. “I heard the call,” she says, simple and true. “And I answered.”

 

* * *

 

The elf calls herself Lavellan. As far as anyone can tell, this Lavellan has never existed before. Leliana does track down a brief mention of a Dalish clan in the Free Marches named Lavellan, but they died in Wycome an age ago. When Cassandra asks Lavellan where she came from, she merely repeats, “I heard the call, and I answered.”

The Conclave does go smoothly, but almost immediately afterwards, the skies are sundered in half by a great breach that spits out rifts and demons all over the land. Divine Justinia manages to survive to decree the start of the Inquisition. Somehow, the Chantry manages to get attached to the idea that Lavellan, with her green mark and strange connection to the Fade, is the Herald of Andraste after a few Revered Sisters dream of a vision about Andraste. 

Cassandra remains suspicious though. The Breach is the same color as Lavellan’s own mark — or Anchor, as she calls it — and Lavellan uses it to close the rifts the Breach spawns up. When Cassandra asks Leliana what her opinion on the entire matter is, Leliana simply shrugs and says, “I have seen stranger things in my travels. Lavellan was meant to be a solution to a problem greater than us all.” 

Despite all of Cassandra’s suspicions, Lavellan takes a strange liking to Casssandra. Perhaps it was because she was the first person she saw in this world or perhaps, it’s for a stranger reason that Cassandra can’t conceive of. However, Lavellan follows after Cassandra and offers her small smiles and gifts and kindness beyond what Cassandra can expect. After some time passes, Cassandra finds herself softening towards this Lavellan. After Lavellan closes the Breach, Cassandra decides to take Leliana’s stance on the entire matter.

Lavellan does seem Maker-sent though. She closes the Breach and begins working on the matter of the Mage-Templar war with a kind of determination Cassandra rarely sees in other people. Her memory is nearly impeccable, and she takes Cassandra and a few others who join the Inquisition on journeys around the Hinterlands to handle various requests from the refugees. Even if a month pass, Lavellan holds it all in her memory and returns no matter what to heed the call. Lavellan also has no concept of what safety is. Cassandra feels like she’s going to get a heart attack one day from Lavellan ignoring common sense and scaling near-vertical cliffs or wading into ravenous seas to mine some ore or pick some plant.

As time passes, Cassandra finds herself liking this Lavellan, this Herald, this _Inquisitor_ more and more.

 

* * *

 

According to Morrigan, shapeshifting is an actual branch of magic. It isn’t limited to Lavellan alone. Cassandra wishes someone told her sooner because every time Lavellan sheds her shape for something new in the midst of battle, she feels like she’s going to have a heart attack. 

The first time was when Cassandra got attacked by a bear in the Hinterlands. She saw another bear in the distance and thought that this was her end: mauled to death by multiple bears in the wild fields of the Hinterlands. However, the bear slammed into the first bear and started roaring as it dug its claws deep. Later, when the bear fell dead to the ground, the second bear came nosing up to Cassandra and slipped off its shape to reveal Lavellan underneath. Cassandra remembers fainting and then being woken up by an incredibly concerned Lavellan.

The second time was when they needed a messenger back to the first forward camp along the Storm Coast, Lavellan volunteered. The Iron Bull laughed, and quite frankly, Cassandra would have laughed along. The first forward camp was too far away, and there was no possible way that Lavellan could make it back “within the night.” However, Lavellan merely stood up, brushed some sand off her thighs and took flight in a flutter of ebony-black feathers. Lavellan returned later on in the same shape of a raven and tumbled back down onto the sand in the shape of an elf again. The look on Iron Bull’s face both times was priceless. 

The third time was when Cassandra was getting cold at night. The Western Approach may have been blisteringly hot, but the nights were chilly. Cassandra remembers clutching the sides of her bedroll with shivering hands, but somehow, during the night, she managed to fall asleep. When she woke up, she found a wolf curled up around her body, tucked in tight to give her warmth. The wolf sleepily raised its muzzle when Cassandra stirred, and mid-yawn, it shifted back to Lavellan who paid no attention to Cassandra’s yelp of surprise. She merely stretched her limbs before commenting, “You were cold, so I thought I could help.”

Morrigan asks her why Cassandra would ask such a question like that. However, Cassandra ruefully chuckles and doesn’t say anything more on the matter. 

 

* * *

 

“Shape has no purpose,” Lavellan declares to the empty room that they give her in Skyhold. Her lungs are still choking on the char and ash from the wreckage of Haven, and her body is still bending itself back in the right shape after the avalanche broke it all into tiny smithereens. It didn’t kill Lavellan — very little things will — but it still takes too much effort and too much pain to piece it back together. She did it with a single thought in mind though. Duty calls, and she must answer, but she'll also admit that the thought of Cassandra waiting at the end of it all kept her going on.

No one answers. At first, it would seem so because it is an empty room, but Lavellan knows that there is always a god left to listen. After all, gods are nosy, lonely beings who depend largely on humanity for their continued existence as part of the divine. Lavellan knows that there is yet one god that still walks the world in flesh and blood, and if her suspicions are correct, there is another one walking in the very halls of the same fortress she is in. That is not the god she speaks to now.

“Shape has no purpose,” she repeats. She looks down at her hands and her wrists, all bones tightly knit together with tendon and muscle underneath a sheet of skin. “Shape is not the same as purpose. Purpose is the thing that gives me shape, and the things that give me shape are not the items but the things that they represent now. Justice and duty and love, all in a single triangle on a mirror of the moons.”

Still no response, but Lavellan feels like there is someone listening now. Good.

She sits down on the bed and kicks her heels against the soft sides of it. Soft like her own body, soft like the edges of her spirit binding this physical construct together with all the tender love and gentle duty and quiet justice that she can muster up in her marrow. She tilts her head up and asks, “Did you know this from the very start? Is this why you brought me into form?” 

Lavellan waits for three heartbeats, and then, she hears her answer on the wind. “You have given yourself your own answer, Ellana of Clan Lavellan,” the voice says. Lavellan winces at the name. That is a name she has not heard in an age. That is a name that the dead used to call her by, the name that was buried in the gentle, sloping hills that formed the cradling valley nearby Wycome. 

She leans back on the bed and stares up at the vaulted ceiling. Lavellan idly lifts a finger to trace the branches across her skin — vallaslin so old that they have long died out in fashion among the current Dalish clans that wander the plains — and feels the marks of Mythal imprinted on both her skin and bones. “I see,” she slowly says. “Very well then.”

Lavellan rolls over until she’s lying on her side and curls herself up into a small ball, small and quiet in the vastness of a fortress that has held the weight of the world on itself before. It seems as though the fortress will do it once more, but this time, with _her_ purpose instead.

 

* * *

 

Sometimes, it’s easy to forget that Lavellan is not entirely elvhen. Cassandra doesn’t think anyone else in the world knows that Lavellan is anything less or more than elf aside from Leliana, Merrill, Flemeth, and herself. Solas does spend a decent amount of time questioning Lavellan about her origins, but Lavellan retaliates with the same level of interrogation. When they can find out no more about each other, they settle into mutual friendship without any more questions.

But sometimes, Cassandra finds herself forgetting that Lavellan is not elvhen and world-born. 

This is not one of those times.

They’re trapped in the Fade with too many demons assailing their position, and ever since they landed here in this strange parallel world, Lavellan does not look entirely like herself. When she turns her head just so, Cassandra thinks she can see halla fur rippling across the expanse of Lavellan’s hair. When she cries out a command to Solas and Cole, her teeth are the teeth of wolves and sharper than shattered glass. 

And when she dives to protect Cassandra from a terror demon, the outlines of her body flicker and the vallaslin on her face realign themselves so that the branches outline dragon wings instead of the simple flare that they normally are. Her hands are claws one moment and the other, they are normal fingers. Scales briefly ripple up and down her arms as she cast spell after spell, and the final shout she cries out with the last spellwork is more like the roar of a dragon rather than the throat of an elf. The demon falls, and Lavellan turns to face Cassandra, chest heaving and form struggling to keep the right one. Cassandra looks at Lavellan and sees infinite shapes caught in the wildness that is nothing more and nothing less than _Lavellan._

At first, this terrifies her. There is too much wildness pent up in the confines of Lavellan’s body, and it seems like the Fade — with all of its tenuous, borderless, undiscovered boundaries — placed the key in the lock of Lavellan’s form. But then, Cassandra sees the love and fear, all twisted up together into a single knot, that is blatantly there on Lavellan’s face. Lavellan stumbles towards Cassandra, and she manages to get her mouth and tongue in the right shape long enough to say, _“Vhenan,_ are you alright?”

Cassandra has never heard Lavellan say the first word before. Perhaps it’s elvhen or perhaps it’s some word long lost to the tides of time, but whatever it might mean, Cassandra hears the feeling behind it more than the actual syllables themselves. Those syllables alone show what Lavellan is, down the core, and so, Cassandra steps forward and catches Lavellan in an embrace.

“I’m glad you’re alive,” she breathes into the shell of Lavellan’s pointed ear. “But don’t put yourself in danger for me like that ever again. I don’t know what I would do if I lost you.”

Lavellan puffs out a breath of laughter, and her breath is hot and full of pent-up fire. Cassandra can feel the shift of magic underneath her fingertips, but above all else, she can sense the sensation of open fields and open skies that she first felt when they summoned Lavellan on that fateful night. “I love you, you know,” Cassandra impulsively says. To the Void with it. They’re trapped in the Fade, and Lavellan almost died _for her_ , and Cassandra cannot think of any conceivable way out except past the giant Nightmare along the horizon’s edge. To the Void with everything, including her inhibitions. She hears Lavellan’s breath hitch, but she continues, “Maker, I love you.”

Lavellan pulls away from her, and for a split second, Cassandra wonders if she’s said the wrong thing. Then, she sees Lavellan’s face, shining bright with too much emotion, and then, she feels Lavellan’s lips on her own, kissing her as if the world was going to end at that very moment. Lavellan tastes like magic, bright and vibrant and thrumming with too much Fade and too much power. 

Because here is the truth that lives and thrives within the bounds of Lavellan’s skin: Lavellan loves Cassandra and that is enough to give her the right shape she needs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hm, i don't know what to say abt this au other than that the idea for it came during a plane ride and i just kept on writing until i landed. anyways, the premise is that lavellan is a ghost bound to the current age in order to be the "right" inquisitor (a "diy" inquisitor is what i have in my notes) to kinda explain away the entire "reloading previous saves when you die" mechanism in games. 
> 
> let me know what your thoughts were in the comments haha i'd love to see them :)


	7. no such thing as ending

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> // reincarnation au

There is no such thing as ending.

This is a truth that Lavellan knows down to the very marrow of her bones. This is a truth that has been handed down from generation to generation, worn smooth with each retelling. After all, the world is built on a cycle itself. The passing of the skies and stars from sun to moons in the grand scheme of day and night. The return of the sea as tides lapping against the sand-smooth shores with each rotation of the moon. The scarlet-leaved autumn fading into bristle-iced winter melting into wildflower spring blooming into full, sun-burnt summer. Even death gives away for more life to grow. This is the plain and simple truth of it. There is no such thing as ending.

Souls are much the same. Lavellan knows that in another age, she had a different life to live. Some of the oldest and most talented mages could access one or two memories from their previous lives, but that usually took a lifetime to find. Lavellan never thought she would ever reach that level of skill. But now that the Anchor is seething and raging within the confines of her palm, she finds that her initial assumption is thoroughly incorrect with each transient dream that swathes her in the Fade. 

She begins to dream, and as she dreams, she starts sifting through the fragments of what her life used to be.

 

* * *

 

The first dream comes in a haze. Lavellan has to push through the gloam of the Fade with nothing but the light of her Anchor to guide her through, but eventually, she passes through.

The sun beats down, and the baleful light burns and bakes her skin. Sweat beads on her brow, but Lavellan — or is that even her name anymore? — wipes it off with a careless gesture. Somehow, despite the terrible weather, this day is one of the best days of her life. She glances down at her callused hands and finds a brand marked on her wrists. _Servus,_ the memory tells her. Lavellan recoils from the term, but the memory repeats, _Servus._ The memory gleams a touch brighter and now says, _no, you are no longer a slave, you are liberati._

Freedom. Lavellan knows about the concept in so many different terms — _revas_ being the first to come to mind — but today, it is _libertas_ that burns bright in her veins underneath the caustic sun.

She glances around to see her commander, Shartan, approach her and the rest of the elves gathered with three human soldiers. One of them is that woman that their masters — their jailors — despise with a burning passion. Andraste. Peculiar name, foreign to Lavellan’s lips, but she twists that name on her tongue silently as they approach. The other two women are different: one with scarlet hair and a raven perched on her shoulder and the other with heavy armor and a scar running diagonally down her cheek. 

Some of the other elves instinctively start to dip their heads into a bow, but Lavellan fights the urge with everything she’s got. She has spent too many years with her head bowed to a master. She will not bow her head any longer. Instead, Lavellan keeps her head proudly up and her chin high as the others approach, and Shartan gives her a nod of approval. Lavellan’s lips twitch up into a small smile of triumph. 

“Friends, elves, countrymen,” Shartan begins. “This is Andraste as well as the two women from her tribe that will be helping us with our part of the battle maneuvers. This is Leliana and this is Cassandra.”

The scarlet-haired one — Leliana — dips her head into a slight bow, taking care not to disturb the raven, and says, “A pleasure to meet you all.” 

Conversely, the one with the scar, which Lavellan assumes to be Cassandra, salutes them all with more respect than Lavellan’s ever seen.

Andraste steps forward and surveys all the elves. She glances over at Shartan and asks, “Are you sure about this?” 

Lavellan bites down the trained urge to nod along and moves forward by two steps. She tightens her hands into fists in hopes of hiding the way that they shake. “We fight for freedom,” she says. “We make this choice out of our own free will.”

Cassandra looks at her with the most intensity out of the three which is another thing that surprises Lavellan. However, Andraste merely smiles and says, “Good.”

“Lavellan is right,” Shartan confirms. He looks to Lavellan and the others with the same kind of resolve that swayed them over to his side from the very start. He smiles and says, “We will march to victory tomorrow.”

Later, when Lavellan is getting ready to sleep for the night, she finds Cassandra loitering by her tent. Cassandra notices and immediately folds her hands behind her back and shifts her feet in the dry grass. “Did you need anything?” Lavellan asks suspiciously.

“No, no,” Cassandra hurries to say. “I just wanted to tell you that I admired your resolve earlier.”

Lavellan eyes Cassandra carefully and tries to search for any duplicity in her face. She’s never had a single drop of trust for any of the shemlen, but the only thing she sees in Cassandra’s expression is bold sincerity and a good deal of awkwardness. Lavellan slowly says, “Thank you. I appreciate it, but it is a given. There is nothing more that I want more than true freedom. I do not want to live as _liberati._ I want to live as myself, and if that means siding with your Andraste, then so be it.”

“Oh, do you not believe in the Maker?” Cassandra asks.

Lavellan narrows her eyes and says, “No, I do not, and I do not believe in the Tevinter gods either. My gods are the ones who walked the world long ago and are now beyond the Veil. The Evanuris are enough for me. Is this going to be a problem?”

“No,” Cassandra says slowly. The word drips off her tongue in a long, drawn-out syllable, but Lavellan can’t detect any malice in it. “You’re entitled to your own beliefs. I just thought that most people were joining this fight for the Maker, but now, I think we’re all fighting for the same thing.”

“Which is?” Lavellan prompts.

Cassandra gives Lavellan a ghost of a smile and says, “Freedom.”

Oh, Lavellan thinks she’ll get along with this _shemlen_ woman better than she ever has with a shemlen woman.

But when Lavellan wakes up from her dream, she’s left with nothing but the taste of the word, _libertas,_ on her tongue.

 

* * *

 

“Do you think,” Cassandra starts. She hesitates, looks at Lavellan with a slight twist to her lips, furrows her brow with too much thought behind it all. Then, she finishes, “Do you think we’ve met before?” 

Lavellan looks at Cassandra and thinks about the dream again. “Perhaps,” she decides to say. “But I do not know when.”

 

* * *

 

The next memory is of a battlefield, scarred over and over with magefire and templar smites. The Sword of Mercy flies high in the air, and Lavellan is hunched over on the battlefield with her lifeblood leaking from her body and splashing down on the ground. There will be no more after this. High Commander Lavellan is not a fool. Even if she does survive this, Divine Renata will likely order her execution.

She looks up, and that action alone takes too much energy out of her. Lavellan has to use her sword to prop herself up. One of the Chantry’s soldiers — a woman with too much grief in her eyes for such a total victory — looks down at her with abject horror. “It wasn’t supposed to be like this,” she chokes out.

“Oh, Cassandra, _vhenan,”_ ” Lavellan manages to say. “There was no other way this was going to end other than in blood and fire. Welcome to the Exalted March, my love.”

“I didn’t want this to happen,” Cassandra weeps. She kneels down beside Lavellan, heedless of the blood and the dirt. 

“There was no other way,” Lavellan rasps. “It was all over when your people murdered Lindiranae.” She clutches onto Cassandra’s gauntlet and looks up at her. This shemlen — her _heart_ — with too much righteous justice and tender love burning and crackling bright in her body was blind to the horrible truth of the Exalted March. Perhaps this was why Lavellan fell in love in the first place. Cassandra was a woman of ideals, someone who believed in the greater good instead of the divide between humans and elves, and Lavellan is both grateful and miserable that she had the (mis)fortune to fall in love with her. 

No matter; she does not have much time left on this world. She reaches up, trying to reach Cassandra’s cheek, but she barely has the strength to keep talking. Lavellan lurches forward, having lost her balance, and Cassandra cradles her close. 

“The remaining members of my clan are fleeing the Dales,” Lavellan says. “Please, if anything, turn a blind eye to them. Keep your people from hunting them down. Let them live another day.”

“Of course,” Cassandra promises her. “This is the least that I can do. We’re going to get you out, Lavellan, we’re going to get you out and get you healed.”

“No chance,” Lavellan murmurs. “This is the end for me.” She can feel the last few rhythms of her heart beating out of her as she whispers, “I love you, Cassandra. Perhaps we’ll meet again.” A wry smile makes the corners of her lips twitch upward. 

“After all,” Lavellan tells Cassandra. “There is no such thing as ending.”

With that, she dies. 

With that, Lavellan wakes up in Skyhold: heart pounding and her eyes wide and weeping.

 

* * *

 

Cassandra stops Lavellan on the way to breakfast and asks, “Have you been hurt?” She looks down towards Lavellan’s abdomen and searches for any sign of injury. Lavellan instinctively reaches for the place that she remembers vaguely from the dream, and Cassandra tracks the motion with her eyes.

“No,” Lavellan says quietly. “I have not been hurt in recent memory.” The sentence is true; she hasn’t been injured on any outings to the Hinterlands during the past few weeks. She just doesn’t know why the sentence feels like a lie though.

“That’s…” Cassandra trails off. She absently reaches out to check the false wound herself and curves her warm hand against Lavellan’s waist. “That’s good,” she says with a single breath. Her hand is still on Lavellan’s body, warm with gentle touch, and Lavellan can’t help but lean in closer.

Lavellan just doesn’t know why.

 

* * *

 

It's the Towers Age. Lavellan knows this from the towers that loom up from the completed Chantry in Val Royeaux. Even though she originally hails from Free Marcher territory, she stands in the streets, staring at the towers. Surprising how they still survived the darkspawn onslaughts. Even now, she can hear the song of the Archdemon echoing in the shells of her pointed ears, and it is incessant and droning and dissonant in all the worst ways.

Lavellan stretches her limbs up to the sky before she tries to shrug off her weariness. Behind her, a voice asks, “Tired?”

Lavellan, in this memory, lets out a soft huff of laughter and says, “Of course, Cassandra. Why would I not be?” She glances back to see her lover dressed in the same Warden blues and snorts, “Are you not?”

“No, I am,” Cassandra admits. She holds up a small paper bag. “I did buy some food in hopes of cheering you up.”

Lavellan’s ears prick up and she sniffs the air. “You did not,” she quietly accuses. “That is the smell of too-expensive food.”

“Well, they did give it to me at a discount because I was a Warden,” Cassandra says as she nudges Lavellan on the shoulder. “Benefits of a Blight, I suppose. Besides, you like berries.”

“I like anything sweet,” Lavellan corrects. She plucks the bag out of Cassandra’s hands to peek inside. Sure enough, there’s a warm hand-pie with dark berry juice staining the sides of the folds. It looks sticky with honey and berries too. She pulls it out to take a bite and sighs when the tart sweetness floods her senses. Creators, she loves sweets. Hard to find anything sweet in the middle of a Blight to boot.

Cassandra and Lavellan share the hand-pie, bite for bite, but it’s Cassandra that carefully wipes away the stickiness with a handkerchief from Lavellan’s fingers. Her touch is careful and gentle, and Lavellan almost shivers under her touch. Somehow, she’s getting the strange feeling that she’s felt this before, but she has no idea when that would be. 

Lavellan leans in to kiss Cassandra, and Cassandra’s lips still taste like berries and honey. At least this is something new. A memory newly made that she does not have to bother trying to place again. This is the one sweet thing she finds in the middle of a Bligh, and despite the jagged song still blaring in her ears, Lavellan thinks it might have been worth it if it meant having Cassandra with her.

 

* * *

 

The sun beats down on Skyhold with an unwavering heat, and Lavellan idly comments, “This feels like Tevinter.”

“I thought the South was nothing but a miserable, cold wreck. I only have warm clothes now. None of my thinner, fashionable robes from home to deal with this insufferable heat,” Dorian grumbles. He fans himself with a folded up piece of parchment — a leftover fragment from a report Lavellan received — before he suspiciously says, “How would you know?”

“I… I do not know,” Lavellan admits. She just can’t shake the thought of the caustic sun burning the grass to a dry yellow in Tevinter. It reminds her of the heat right now in Skyhold.

“Lavellan!” a voice calls out. Lavellan glances back to see Cassandra walking towards the gazebo. She holds up a small packet in her hands, wrapped up in brown paper. “I brought you something,” she says when she gets closer.

“Did you bring me anything?” Dorian asks. He laughs and fans himself a little more before he says, “You two lovebirds are adorable, bringing things for each other.”

“No, I didn’t know you’d be here,” Cassandra says with a note of apology in her tone, but she passes the packet over to Lavellan. “Here. I know it’s hot out, but the kitchens were making some hand-pies and I brought you one because it’s what you like, isn’t it?”

Lavellan unwraps the brown paper from the piping hot pastry, and sure enough, there’s a small pie, golden-brown and dusted over with a few flakes of sugar. _It was honey last time,_ she thinks, but then, she blinks hard and wonders where the thought came from. She glances up and asks, “How did you know?”

Cassandra cocks her head and says, “I… I don’t know. Maybe you mentioned it while we were out on a mission or something like that?” 

 

* * *

 

The Blessed Age is supposed to be blessed, but Lavellan thinks that it’s a far cry from that. Her alienage is burning, and the smoke is still in her lungs and mouth as she sprints away from Denerim. Cassandra is already there, waiting by the outskirts of the city, with a wagon and a small horse. Her grandmother lags behind her though, and she screams, _“Mamaela,_ we have to run faster!”

“She can’t run that fast!” her brother replies sharply. “Here, _mamaela,_ let me carry you on my back.”

“It’ll be a cold day in hell before I let you break your back for mine,” their grandmother snaps back. She gathers up her skirts and takes in one, long, ash-full breath before she moves forward again. 

Fear drums hot and heavy in Lavellan’s heart. The Orlesians had no mercy for the Fereldans. They would likely have no mercy for a motley group of city elves too. The only hope they have is to run to safety, which Cassandra promised them. 

They wheel around a corner just in time to see a group of chevaliers going down the streets. A few have torches in their hands, and one cries out and points at them. Lavellan snarls at them, lips pulled back to reveal the bare tips of her teeth. They start running towards them, and while her brother pulls her grandmother back to safety, Lavellan runs towards them with fire and lightning trailing from her outstretched fingertips.

She dives and rolls to the side just before she collides with the chevaliers’ rapiers, but the chevaliers don’t react fast enough and get caught in a series of ice mines that burst up around them. Lavellan’s no Circle mage, but she’s figured out enough tricks as an apostate to survive. Running and surviving are few of the things she does best. Her brother herds her grandmother past them, and the Lavellans keep running. 

Soon, they reach Cassandra. Lavellan’s lover rushes towards her to smooth her cold hands over Lavellan’s warm cheeks. As she brushes away the ash, she whispers, “I was scared that you wouldn’t make it.”

“I’ll always come back to you,” Lavellan promises. “Even if time and Orlais try to stop me, I’ll always come back to you.”

She helps both her brother and her grandmother into the cart before she gets in front beside Cassandra. Cassandra gets the horse going, and they trundle away from the fires of what used to be Lavellan’s home. Lavellan coughs, eyes watering from the residual soot, and Cassandra reaches out a hand. Lavellan clasps it tightly and shuts her eyes to try and block out the world around her for only a moment.

“I’ll always be here for you,” Cassandra abruptly says, quiet and soft and barely audible. Lavellan opens her eyes to look up at Cassandra. Cassandra’s staring straight ahead, and at this angle, Lavellan can see the scar running down the line of her lover’s cheek, puckered and brown in the dark night. “I’ll be here,” Cassandra repeats, even softer than before.

 

* * *

 

Lavellan wakes up to the sound of knocking on her door. Although, in all honesty, it’s more like pounding rather than knocking. Lavellan pads her way towards the door only to find Cassandra, panting and out of breath. “Did you,” she starts, almost tripping over the syllables in her words. “Did you dream the same thing I did?”

Lavellan looks up at Cassandra’s face and searches through her memories. She has too many to sift through now. A woman by Andraste’s side, blade gleaming in the Tevinter sun. Liberty and freedom giving her wings and breaking off her shackles. Blood burning and smoking in the wreckage of the Exalted March. Pain, deep in her belly where her lifeblood pooled. Taint pounding and coursing through her veins and singing discordantly and incessantly. A small pie, sweet with honey and berries. The alienage crashing down around her as her legs burned with the ache of running over and over again. And throughout it all, _Cassandra,_ her heart, her love, in every single one.

Lavellan reaches out and traces the scar on Cassandra’s cheek with her index finger before she pulls Cassandra into a hug. “Yes,” she whispers into Cassandra’s dream. “Yes.”

There is no such thing as ending. This is something that she’s known for so long, something that generation after generation of her clan has passed down through the seasons and the stars. But now, Lavellan knows that the world is kind enough to give her this throughout the lives that she’s lived.

There is no such thing as ending, but for Lavellan and Cassandra, there is no end to loving.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the premise is that lavellan and cassandra get reincarnated throughout every age. the initial idea was to have them remember bits and pieces from each age until they reached the dragon age. i got too lazy to write the memories from the divine, black, exalted, steel, and storm ages, but we've got ancient, glory, towers, and blessed at the very least 👍
> 
> historical events referenced are:  
> \- andraste's march on tevinter during ancient  
> \- the exalted march on the dales ordered by divine renata during glory  
> \- the third blight with the archdemon, toth, during towers  
> \- the second invasion of ferelden and the sacking of denerim by the orlesian empire during blessed


End file.
